


an omega's place

by rory_kent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha John, Alpha Mycroft Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Beta Greg Lestrade, British Military, Captain John Watson, Caring John Watson, Chastity Device, Complicated Relationships, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, First Time, Gender Roles, Grief/Mourning, Historical References, Implied Mpreg, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Omega Sherlock, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Phone Sex, Pining John, Sherlock Holmes Hates Himself, Soldier Sherlock Holmes, Weddings, World War II, alan turing played by alan turing not cumberbatch, john watson is trying his best, mycroft is a rubish big brother, send nudes but it's 1940
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 44
Words: 87,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24856702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_kent/pseuds/rory_kent
Summary: As Britain prepares to enter the second world war, 16 year old omega Sherlock wrestles with his identity as he comes to terms with his arranged marriage to John Watson, a wealthy 27-year-old army captain who is soon to ship out, and eager to show Sherlock that maybe being an omega isn't quite so terrible after all.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 530
Kudos: 416





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my brain is dead so I decided to write a WWII omegaverse story yay enjoy!

11 March, 1929

Sherlock Holmes had lived a comfortable life. Sweet and innocent days of childhood that hazed together into a scrapbook of pirate games and honeyed tea and skinned knees. Boyhood fantasies that wasted away hours and days as he wandered the grounds of the estate, sword in hand, slaying dragons and fencing monstrous sea creatures. Sherlock's tummy had began to hurt that day. Nothing terrible, surely nothing a bubble bath or some stollen chocolate from Nanny couldn't fix. Mycroft was home from school- perhaps they could play pirates later, go out to the little stream and let Sherlock ride on his shoulders...

But it didn't stop hurting. It hurt a lot, actually, a hot searing hurt that turned his tummy over inside, sweat beginning to pool on his forehead, his fringes sticking to his skin. Sherlock was dizzy as he wandered across the green, into the house through the service entrance, receiving strange sniffs and looks from the kitchen staff. 

"Mummy?" He cried, tiny voice, small shiny shoes clacking on the marble floors of the north corridor, "Mycroft?" His cries grew in desperation as he searched the house, sweat dripping down his back and drenching his shirt. He peeled off his tweed blazer, dragging it by the sleeve as he ran. "Mykie! Mummy! Please, somebody!" He found one of the downstairs maids, whose nose twitched as he frantically approached.

"Please, help me, I need - need my brother, I'm, sweaty," The Beta female's eyes widened to saucers, gripping him tight by the hand, dragging him through the house silently, putting a finger to her lips. Sherlock obeyed, his mind fuzzy as she pulled him down the hall, his sluggish feet tripping and falling behind. She scooped him into her arms, rushing up flights of stairs, tucking his head of sweaty curls into her neck, speaking in hushed tones to one of the footmen, carrying Sherlock to a room he'd never seen before. His eyelashes fluttered drowsily as she pulled open the bolt of the strong metal door, carrying Sherlock into a sparsely decorated room, just a bed and table, an en suite attached as well as the cool stream of air conditioning. _Air conditioning_. He gasped at the sweet relief, although fleeting. The maid tucked him into the bed, looking at him with forlorn sadness, which confused him greatly. He must be dying. 

Well, he hoped Mycroft would get time off of school to come bury him. Maybe then he'd regret not playing pirates with him. 

The maid left briskly, the door slamming shut behind her, the dead bolt snapping shut. Sherlock realized there wasn't a handle on this side, and he rolled off the bed, collapsing onto the floor in a heap before crawling to the door. He searched for a handle, or something to open it. Nothing. Fear was thumping through his veins as he sat against the cool metal, sweat still pouring off his locks and onto his shirt collar. His eyes flickered over the windows. There weren't any, he realized. 

Then, the worst came. He sat back onto the carpet, only to hear his trousers make an appalling squealch beneath him. He gasped, hands grasping down around his bum. He was soaking! He must've peed himself, he figured, stripping off his trousers and pants to give to Nanny to wash. But it wasn't urine. It was clear, whitish sticky stuff, it was seeping from his bum and running in rivers down his legs. Sherlock was petrified at this new symptom of his condition. 

"MYCROFT! MUMMY! PLEASE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" He pound weakly against the door, screaming at the top of his tiny lungs, tears pouring down his face at the sheer _emptiness_ that filled him. Feral, animalistic tremors and sounds he couldn't control. He shivered and cried into the pathetic empty cell. "help me," He whispered deflated, "please."

* * *

Violet Holmes was having tea when she saw the terse whispering of the servants in the corner of the elegant room. She glared, dropping her teacup in it's saucer and looking to her elder son, a newly presented Alpha at Harrow, so keen and charming like his father. Yes, she was proud of Mycroft. Quite proud. He would make a fine head of the family. That was exactly what they'd been discussing as they awaited Sherlock's tardy arrival. 

"Yes, hello, excuse me? A little peace and quiet please?" Violet snarled at the unsuspecting maids, whose eyes widened fearfully, unsure what to do. Mycroft could smell their fear and stood, calmly and stately, buttoning his jacket.

"What is it, what's the matter?" A timid beta woman looked at him, frantically switching her gaze between the Dowager Omega and the new Alpha Patriarch. 

"Your brother, sir, he's gone into heat, quite suddenly," Violet gasped and Mycroft shook his head.

"He's six years old, the chances of a Holmes male presenting omega alone, along with presenting so young are astronomical at best-" Mycroft was filled with a sudden dread, a chill that ran along his spine and settled in a grimace on his face. Familial bonding or what have you, but the alpha in his blood _knew_ Sherlock had presented- he dismissed this archaic biological explanation, pinning it to his subconscious deducing what his conscious mind could not. He turned to Mummy, swallowing and looking at her meaningfully. His little brother was an Omega. Meek, timid creatures which needed protection, guidance, affection. He grimaced, looking down at his feet and shoving hands in his pockets. 

"But, he's so, _young!_ " Mummy whispered, hand still raised to her face in silent shock. The doctors had all said, _two alpha boys, well done, Mrs. Holmes, well done, he's a fast growing thing, a sure alpha._ They had raised him thus far as a free spirited, albeit shy presumptive alpha, or at the very least a beta. But now, now Sherlock was property. He would never go to school. He would never vote, own property of his own, or have a job without his alpha's consent. He was a pretty little thing to be appreciated, like a statue or a painting, to be admired, but never to be listened to. "I'll see to him, Mycroft, I'll phone the doctors right away,"

"No, mummy," Mycroft smiled sadly, looking with a slight mourning to his mother, pressing a kiss to her cheek as he left the drawing room, "He's my responsibility now, I'll see to him." 

* * *

"Sherlock?" Mycroft knocked on the thick metal door, hearing the faint keens of a small child. "Sherlock it's Mycroft, I brought you some things,"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock squeaked out between agonized moans, convulsing on the plush carpet floor, hands between his legs, ashamedly finding relief for himself. "Mykie! Please, help me, Mycroft!" The elder holmes bit his cheek, looking to the empty hall and sighing.

"Sherlock I can't come in there, I'm going to open the slot to give you some food. I got you icecream, isn't that lovely,"

"Mycroft please, please, help me, make it stop, make it STOP! It hurts, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered as the slot opened and a strong lure of alpha pheromones filled his nostrils, "please, you, you smell good, please stay," Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was still quite too young to understand scenting, mating, bonding, any of it. He probably didn't even know what a secondary gender _was._

"I can stay out here, Sherlock, but it isn't safe for me to come in, that's why the door is so secure," Mycroft sighed, slouching down against the wall, head tilted back, arms resting on his knees. 

"Am I dying, Mycroft?" Sherlock mumbled between facefuls of mint chocolate chip, tears drying a bit at the lovely taste.

"No, brother, you're not dying," Mycroft paused, unsure how to explain, "No, you're not dying, you're just growing. Happens to all of us."

" _This_ happens to you too?" 

"No, just to some people, you're lucky you know," Sherlock keened, the cooling effects of Mycroft's scent and the icecream fading as his heat continued to ravage his tiny body. 

"Lucky?" He furrowed his brows and huffed, hands gripping his tummy, "It _hurts!"_

 _"_ Yes, but now we know you're an omega, Sherlock, and that's wonderful news. We'll have a party soon to tell everyone."

"Omega?" Sherlock breathed out, pain thrashing through him, trying desperately to press his nose out the slot in the door to get more of his brother's balming smell. Mycroft sighed. 

"It means you're very special, Sherlock, it means some day you'll have babies," 

"Like mummy?"

"Yes, exactly like that," Mycroft paused again, turning towards the door, doing his damn hardest not to salivate at the sweet sugary scent of a fertile omega. "This is wonderful news Sherlock, I promise," Mycroft fought the tears that welled in his eyes. "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! I promise there is more on the way!! Comments and suggestions are always appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

20 March 1929

Last week had been hell. Mykie had called it _heat_ , saying that it would happen quite regularly now, that he'd understand more soon after his upcoming doctor's appointment. He even had a new doctor now, a specialist, Mycroft had called it. 

Sherlock had never been to a party before. Unless you counted Christmas dinners with Uncle Rudy and his Grandmama, but she was dead now. He sat nervously on his bed as Mycroft's valet dressed him. The kind older man pulled a delicate sage green silky shirt over Sherlock's shoulders, and it hung strangely over his tiny frame, buttoning the golden clasps down the front and pulling a pair of cream silk arm bands to tighten the sleeves of the shirt around his wrists, letting Sherlock struggle with the buckles as he pulled a flowery crown of babes breath from the dressing table, fixing it to Sherlock's floof of curls.

"Martin, why am I dressed so funny?" Sherlock gaped at the valet with intense curiosity, gesturing to his quite girlish frilly outfit. "I look like I'm getting christened again." Martin bit his lip and pushed a golden ring onto Sherlock's finger, but it slipped off, bouncing off the floor and rolling under the bed. "I'll get it!" Sherlock dropped to his tummy and began to crawl before Martin could stop him.

"Please, sir, don't do that," Martin soothed and Sherlock whined, crossing his arms in a strop as the feebly old man bent down to retrieve the oversize ring. Sherlock tucked a stray fringe behind his ear, brushing against the flowers in his hair.

"This is the silliest party I've ever heard of, Martin, why do I have to dress like a- like a faery or something!" Sherlock flapped his loose sleeves around like wings. The family heirloom of the presentation gown was so large on him, never had a Holmes presented _so_ early.

"Sherlock, please, calm down," Martin sighed as he pushed the ring onto Sherlock's tiny thumb. "This is an important day for you, you have to look nice." 

"Why do people keep saying that? I don't understand!" Martin watched the tiny omega as he huffed, arms crossed tight across his chest as he sat on his bed. Martin himself was an omega, his Alpha had allowed him to continue working in service. His presentation hadn't been so regal at all- just a private affair at the country registrars office. He smiled forlornly, watching his young charge as he gazed out the window. "I just want to go outside and play with Mycroft. I don't want a stupid party." Martin smiled and pat Sherlock's cheek, the young boy's eyes slightly blustery.

Martin sighed and he pulled the purity belt from it's case. Sherlock cocked his head as Martin knelt and helped him to step into it, the older man blushing furiously as he fixed the metal pieces in place around Sherlock's newly blossoming omega biology. "That's cold!" Sherlock closed his bony knees, placing his hands on Martin's shoulders and watching as the straps were buckled closed. "What is this for? it's _cold_!"

The valet sighed, pulling soft white silk trousers up around Sherlock's hips. "Just part of the presentation, Sherlock," The tiny boy swallowed nervously. 

"How come I have to wear this? How come I have to have this stupid party? I look like a _girl."_

"You look beautiful, Sherlock. You'll understand when you're older." Oh, if only that were true. 

* * *

Sherlock was given a single rose, to represent the gifts of fertility, and a dribble of oil on his forehead to represent purity. He swung the rose around by it's stem as he stood in the chapel, desperately wanting to wipe his bloody forehead off. A few petals drooped to the floor as he shuffled from foot to foot. Mummy was in the front row, various relations and family connections filling the pews. Sherlock wondered if they'd think he looked stupid. He sure thought he did. The music started and the room held their breath.

Martin had told him exactly what to do when he got to the front of the abbey, but he was so nervous, he could barely remember. All eyes were turned to him as he made his way to the altar, the Vicar and Mycroft watching him with looks he couldn't understand. A mixture of pity and disappointment. Sherlock swallowed thickly, tears brimming in his eyes as he felt a hundred eyes blaring down him. He made a few shy steps before he made eye contact with his favourite uncle Rudy, who was watching him with genuine fear and concern. Sherlock burst into tears, falling to the floor and wrapping himself into a ball. His Mother scoffed and Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. The chapel filled with coos and _aww_ s as Rudy quickly came to Sherlock's rescue, kneeling in his morning suit and wrapping arms around his hiccuping nephew.

"You're alright, Sherlock, everyone is so very proud of you, sport," Rudy smiled and wiped away his tears, pulling him to his wobbly feet and wrapping Sherlock's arm around his own. placing calm and affirming hands over Sherlock's, guiding him down the aisle. Unconventional maybe, a presenting omega usually entered alone, but nobody seemed to mind as the older beta man gently brought Sherlock to his brother. Sherlock whimpered, eyes flickering around the church, quite embarrassed. He made eye contact with a tan, blonde boy, Mycroft's age, who smiled at him and gave him an encouraging thumbs up. Sherlock blushed and continued until he made it to the small stool that was waiting for him. Rudy pat his hand and let him go, quickly finding his seat once again. The organ stopped it's tune and silence fell. Sherlock nervously knelt, the stool creaking beneath his knees, just like Martin had said, but instead of bowing his head he looked fearfully up to his older brother, nose snotty and tears still drying on his cheeks. Mycroft gave him a firm nod as the priest began the ceremony. 

"Today we celebrate the presentation of the youngest child of the late Alpha Siger Holmes, brother to the Lord Mycroft Holmes, seventeenth Earl of Sherinford..." Sherlock didn't pay much attention as the kind looking priest went through the formal proceedings, he instead watched his brother intently- he looked so much older than he had just yesterday. Sherlock shuffled on his knees, picking at the thorns of his flower. Sherlock went silently in his head over the motions he had to recite, and was distracted before the priest gently tapped his shoulder.

He sputtered, looking to Mycroft frantically, his brother only fixing him with a tight stare, unfeeling, placid and grey. Sherlock shivered and began to speak, very softly.

"I pledge myself to you, brother, to honour, respect and obey you, under your house and hands," Sherlock presented his flower to his brother shakily, the gesture representing the surrender of his body. His brother closed Sherlock's hands around the flower, shaking his head, to represent the refusal of a bond. The elder Holmes smiled slightly, brushing a hand through Sherlock's curls, watching his tiny little brother's wide silvery eyes, glowing green and blue.

"I vow my protect, brother mine, to cherish and to guide you, under my house, until you are bound in marriage,"

Mycroft pulled the keys form his pocket, leaning in front of his kneeling brother, pulling his trousers down a bit, the small boy blushing furiously, looking up at the smiling Vicar with fear as Mycroft put the key in the lock of his belt, turning it, locking it, and putting the keys back into his pocket. The abbey erupted in applause, and Mycroft scooped Sherlock up onto his hip, his flower crown lopsided on his mess of midnight hair, nose tucked into his brother's neck, breathing in deep gulps of his calming smell. 

"You did very good, little brother, very good indeed," Something deep and ingrained in Sherlock's tummy bubbled at the praise from his Alpha, an instinct he would soon learn to detest. But for now, the bashful omega smiled, feeling quite special as his family applauded him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *muah* hope you're as disgusted with this society as I am


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my loves, I want to warn you that this chapter is very triggering for mentions of abuse, self-harm, and body-mutilation. I promise that this is the low point for this story, and that things will get better as it goes on!!

July 15, 1934

"No, _wrong_ , try again," Sherlock sputtered, holding his bow midair, his tutor's harsh glare freezing him in place. "What's the key signature, Sherlock?" 

"E minor, _ma'am_ ," Sherlock hissed, closing his eyes and trying to maintain his dignity. This pompous arsehole had forced him to repeat the sonata's opening lick five times. He sure as hell was not going to do it again. 

"I'll remind you keep your tone respectful, boy," The Alpha female growled, watching him intently. "You know what, Sherlock, no more violin for now. We'll do your positions until teatime, how about that?" She smiled, a fake awful, sadistic smile that made Sherlock shudder. At 11, he had learned to _loathe_ his positions. Degrading, inhuman, horrific. The idea he'd ever have to execute them in reality was rarely out of the dusty corner of his mind. In fact, he rarely thought about _real life_ at all. 

"Present, Sherlock," Miss Adler instructed, standing in her red-bottomed heels, looming over the petite omega boy. Sherlock bared his teeth and shook his head. 

" _No."_ He seethed, fists clenched at his sides. 

"no?" Miss Adler almost choked at the amusing gesture of dissent. 

"You heard me, I'm not doing it." Sherlock spat, locking eyes with the woman his brother had hired for his ' _education'._ How lucky he was, Mycroft had said, to be allowed to learn. Most Alphas would not be so lenient. Holding this glare was painful, his biology _begging_ him to submit to the rush of endorphins that obedience would give him. Sherlock grit his teeth, he would endure this. He would not be broken. Miss Adler quirked a dark smile, squinting at her unruly omega charge. 

" _Present._ Now." Sherlock shook his head once more, his eyes giving away his fear, his sweet minty scent turning sour and anxious. He swallowed, trembling slightly as his tutor stared him down. A string of betas, sweet painters and retired teachers had tutored him these last years since his presentation. He hadn't meant to scare them all away, he really hadn't! He liked them, he couldn't help his mouth running, he was just too smart for the wasteful, petty lessons in oil painting, french and etiquette. Each time Sherlock messed up, lost another one, spoke out of turn, ran outside and roughed his delicate skin, Mycroft would come home from University. Sherlock hated how Mycroft had become so high and mighty these last few years- he acted like Sherlock's father, not his brother- bossing him around and talking like he was a child. Sherlock Holmes was _not_ a child. Not in his mind, anyway.

The solution to his frightful independence had been Miss Adler- an Alpha, with an bonded omega of her own, and a very firm hand. Miss Adler was hateful. He'd _begged_ Mycroft to fire her, to let him have just one more chance, he could be good, please God no, not an alpha. His brother had waved him away, ignoring his pleas, even as she grew harsher and harsher, verbally and physically. Breaking him in, so to speak.

"Mycroft's gone soft on you hasn't he?" She tutted, eyeing him up and down, canines glimmering from beneath her garish red lipstick. "third position, Sherlock, and I really don't suggest you disobey me again." Miss Adler's voice was low and calm, but her pheromones were reeking through Sherlock- weakening his resolve, his mind fuzzy. He dropped down on bruised knees, eyes shut tight, tears burning the back of his throat. It took all his strength and focus to fall onto his hands, pressing his forehead to the floor, knees apart, arse held high in the air. Third position was the forgiveness position- humiliatingly exposed and degrading. Mycroft had never hit him. Sherlock had a feeling Miss Adler would not be so merciful. Irene bit her lip in sympathy, Mycroft had let him run wild, and now he was in for a rude awakening. 

"Do you know what happens to omegas who don't obey, Sherlock?" 

" _Punishment,"_ Sherlock grumbled to the floor, a second wave of anger filling him at his debased orientation. Irene grinned and crouched next to the young child, petting his hair. 

"Prospective Alphas will not appreciate your lip, young man, 15 strokes." Adler' heels clicked as she strode across the nursery, retrieving the paddle from it's place above the door. Sherlock sniffled. He would not cry. He would not give this monster the satisfaction of crying. Miss Adler smiled as she raised the paddle into the air.

"one."

* * *

Mycroft rubbed his temples as he hunched over in his study. Hitler was chancellor of Germany, and his rhetoric was getting more and more extreme- the people lapped it up. Mycroft did not care for him. His colleagues at the foreign office said that socialism was nothing to worry about- Germany had learnt her lesson in the Great War. Mycroft wasn't so sure.

 _knock knock._ Mycroft sighed heavily and closed his classified files, shuffling a few important papers away from view. "Come in,"

His baby brother stood in the solid oak doorway, knuckles white gripping the knob. His brows were furrowed in anger, shirt untucked, one knee sock halfway up his calf, the other drooping around his ankle. His hair was a wild jungle of frizzy curls. Mycroft smiled and ignored his brother's strop, patting his knee and rolling his chair from his desk. The gangly boy moved to crawl into his lap, but stopped himself, squaring his shoulders and looking up at Mycroft with determination. 

"I've decided not to be an omega anymore." He announced, stomping a little foot on the floor in a gesture of seriousness. Mycroft bit back a chuckle and cocked an eyebrow at this silly proclamation. 

"I'm afraid there's nothing to be done about that," Mycroft dismissed him, pulling out a file and returning to his work. Sherlock growled and stomped once more, the older ginger alpha eyeing him from above his spectacles. 

"There must be. There must be something you can do." Sherlock gestured to his papers, indicating his high position in government. "When you go to London tomorrow, take me with you, we'll go see the doctor, she can fix me." Sherlock smiled hopefully, his plan made perfect sense! Sherlock's smile faltered as his brother simply looked back down at his papers, ignoring him entirely. Not a flinch. Sherlock balled his fists, his cheeks flushed with frustration. Anger bubbled in his tummy, it wasn't right. People shouldn't get to do that, to hurt anybody else. He burst into raging tears, leaping across the room to shove a stack of papers to the floor. Mycroft stood tall and angry, glaring down at him.

"Sherlock!" He growled indignantly, retrieving his papers and placing them on his desk. "I'm busy, now go back to the nursery. Clearly this is a hormonal problem, is it that time of the month?"

"I'm _not_ going into heat, Mycroft," Sherlock's tears flew free now, "You don't get to just, _say_ that all the time. You're wrong! You're all wrong! You and Mummy. You say you love me, but you don't want to help me!" Sherlock wailed, blue-gray eyes shimmering, laden heavily with tears. Mycroft sighed exasperatedly. 

" _Sherlock."_ The elder Holmes steepled his fingers, leaning on his desk and looking down at his distressed brother

"I'll do it myself then!" Sherlock said quickly, not even knowing what he was saying.

"I'm sorry?"

"I _said,_ I'll do. it. myself." Sherlock turned and ran from the study, the door swinging behind him. Mycroft's jaw fell open as the little figure of his brother ran down the hall, turning and taking the stairs two at a time. 

Mycroft shook his head after a moment and strode out of his study, calmly, not really taking this outburst seriously. His Valet quietly was coming down the corridor, a stack of pressed shirts under his arm. 

"Oh, yes, Martin," Mycroft smiled tersely at the older servant, "Could you look in on Sherlock, I think he's due for, his, well you know," Mycroft coughed, uncomfortable speaking openly about omega issues. Martin nodded and looked concernedly up the staircase.

"Yes sir, I'll check on him, will you be in to dress for dinner as well?" 

"No, Martin, I've got loads of work to do, give my apologies to the Dowager," Mycroft sighed, buttoning his tweed jacket and sighing, looking up the stairs. "Sherlock's not getting any dinner tonight," He gave the older man a nod and turned back to his study. Why couldn't Sherlock just, get with the programme? Money was tight- and a successful marriage would procure the assets to keep the estate together, to give Sherlock the lifestyle he deserved. His early presentation should have given them ample time to prepare him, to mold him, but yet- Sherlock acted as if he was the heroine of a Jane Austen novel. Mycroft had gone to extreme lengths to try and fix his troublesome brother- painting lessons, violin, manners. None of it had worked. Sherlock was seemingly unfixable.

* * *

Sherlock was shaking, violent tremors filling him as he stood in the washroom of the nursery. He double checked the lock. Secure. His fingers clenched tightly around the pair of scissors, the metal handles rubbing a bit of rust on his palms. His shorts, braces, socks and pants were abandoned in a heap by his feet, and he was clad only in his button down, watching himself in the mirror. He flipped another page in the book that lay open on the sink. _Human Anatomy._ The diagram that stared back at him was deceptively brightly coloured. Cheerful little notes pointing the various tubes and organs of the Male Omega, happy little facts about fertility rates, heat cycles, knots. It made him want to puke. 

Sherlock took a shaky breath, stepping to the large clawfoot bath tub, positioning the handheld mirror between his legs, giving him a view of his hateful, disgusting genetalia. He trembled as he brought the scissors to his entrance, gritting his teeth. He paused, gliding the open blade across his inner thigh, just to test it's sharpness. A plume of red pulsed out of the cut and Sherlock watched with fascination as the crimson liquid dribbled down his leg into the tub and circled the drain. He cut once more on the other leg, the pain from the first incision hitting him in a dizzying wave. Time to get to work. 

"Sherlock?" There was a knock on the door, "Sherlock are you in there?" Martin. It was Martin. Not Mycroft. Not Mummy. Sherlock almost responded but stopped, hastily moving to complete his mission, knocking the mirror over in a clatter. He grimaced and held still, hoping the old man would ignore it. Martin was panicking. The scent of omega blood was wafting through the closed door. Martin had never had children- but he did have Sherlock. He jiggled the doorknob. Locked! He pounded on the door, shouting this time, "Sherlock! Sherlock open the door. _now_." 

"N-no!" Sherlock cried, slurring his words as blood continued to pulse out of his wounds, he slowly pushed the tip of the scissors inside of himself, keening in pain. 

"I'm coming in, Sherlock," Martin wasn't very strong- elderly, and an omega, but the scent of an omega child in distress filled him with strength as he shoved his weight onto the door, the lock snapping and the door swinging open on it's hinges. The sight that awaited him was sickening, and Martin gagged at the crimson blood that covered Sherlock from the waist down. The scissors slipped from Sherlock's fingers, clanking against the porcelain, dripping with blood. Martin rushed to his side, eyes wide and unbelieving as he took Sherlock's pulse. Weak, but there. The scissors, the blood, the mirror, it wasn't hard to deduce what Sherlock had tried to do. Martin pulled him from the tub, bridal style, calling for help before looking down at the unconscious child in his arms. He tucked a stray curl behind Sherlock's ears, tears running down the older omega's cheeks. 

"Sherlock, what have you done?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* i promise he's gonna be okay
> 
> but more seriously, i'm sure you can figure the real-life inspiration for Sherlock's decision. I think a/b/o dynamics can be an interesting way to explore feminism and gender norms, and I didn't want to make Sherlock's abuse in any way idealized or too fantasy- especially for a very conservative pre-war upperclass society. 
> 
> thank you for all your comments and support! <3


	4. Chapter 4

The irony of being in London, sitting in the office of an omega-specialist was not lost of Mycroft. He shuffled in his seat, leaning both hands on his umbrella. The room was pleasantly decorated- with floral wallpaper and a framed portrait of the queen staring down at him. The kind of omega to be proud of- well born, well spoken, well mannered. Mycroft slammed the tip of his umbrella into the wooden floor. This was his doing. Maybe if he'd called Irene sooner, or sent Sherlock to one of those finishing schools, maybe then he wouldn't be here, waiting to find out if his brother wasn't permanently _damaged goods._

Sherlock didn't look at him. Sherlock didn't move. He sat completely still, a rock, as he stared down at his feet. The silence was deafening- Sherlock hated that phrase, how could quiet be deafening? But, this, the awkward stillness of this stuffy room, his ears were ringing. His shoes were shiny- he could see his own reflection in them. He shifted in the hard back chair, the bandages and gauze squishing beneath him. He had not succeeded one bit. He knew it. Why Mycroft bothered with this appointment when it was clear that Sherlock was still a wretched, submissive, delicate _omega._ He hated that word. He hated this clinic. He hated his brother. He looked up silently, making eye-contact, and quickly looked down. Mycroft only twisted his umbrella in his fingers.

He hadn't told Mummy. She wouldn't have approved of them going to the doctor for this. A shameful, sacrilegious act- if anyone found out, if the rumors got out even before Sherlock's first courtiers caught whiff- he'd be ruined, the family would be ruined, and everyone could gloat about the young Alpha who'd let his entire family down because he couldn't control his disgraceful baby brother. 

"Mr. Lestrade?" Mycroft looked up. Using a fake name was compulsory, and just why he'd chosen that one, he kept firmly to himself. He nodded and looked to Sherlock, who looked at the door with fear. He swallowed and shakily stood, pain flooding between his legs, shivering and taking the Nurses outstretched hand as she led him to the exam room. He dared one look behind his shoulder at Mycroft. 

He looked sad.

* * *

Sherlock shuddered at the table this woman was trying to get him onto- it was padded, with adjustable stirrups hanging from the ceiling to strap his legs into. He swallowed thickly as he noticed straps also across the middle and the arms. He looked to the nurse incredulously- she didn't really expect him to get into that contraption? Her fake smile didn't falter, and Sherlock's scent dripped with fear as she grabbed him easily, hooking under his armpits and lifting him up and onto the table. He gasped, shaking his head, squirming, thrashing, kicking, no matter the pain on his sensitive areas. She didn't stop smiling as she strapped him in, the padded restraints tight around his chest and arms. She gave him a pat. He tried to bite her. 

His trousers, pants and bandages were removed, and he almost fainted at the blood still gushing from the gauzy pads. She proceded to strap down his kicking legs, and his anxiety skyrocketed. She left. Sherlock wriggled and writhed in his bonds, heart beating out of his chest. This wasn't real. This wasn't real.

"Sherlock, hello, I'm Dr. Morgan," An alpha male entered the room, and his scent only made Sherlock worse, tears in his eyes as his whole body fought to escape, to get away. Dr. Morgan snapped on rubber gloves, wheeling over between Sherlock's legs, adjusting the restraints so that his knees hung right below his shoulders. The doctor sighed, examining the outer damage. "Made a bit of a mess of yourself, Sherlock," The doctor smiled kindly- a botched abortion seemed the likely culprit. The man who scheduled Sherlock had been hesitant to say anything, and his smell was all over Sherlock. Dr. Morgan thought for a moment- perhaps Sherlock hadn't done this to himself at all. The omega whined pitifully as the doctor pushed a finger inside him, stretching a bit and looking at the awful cuts. He gave Sherlock a pat on the inside of his thigh. "Can you tell me what was used here?" 

"S-scissors," Sherlock whispered, eyes shut tight, gooseflesh all over his buttocks and thighs at the cool air of the exam room. Dr. Morgan's eyebrows raised and he reached across to a tray with a speculum, warming the metal with his gloved fingers. 

"This may be a tad uncomfortable, sweetheart, try to relax," Sherlock shook his head, curls in his eyes, sweat and tears drying on the tips of his fringes. He didn't relax, he couldn't relax. The cold metal entered him and he keened, involuntarily screaming through his nostrils. 

* * *

God in heaven, why was Mycroft here? The horrible noises from the closed door made the young man shiver, closing his eyes and trying not to think of what they were doing to his brother. Best not to know, he thought. Trust these _omega_ things to professionals. An exasperated nurse came in and out, and Mycroft caught a glance through the swinging door, gagging in his mouth at the sight of his brother trussed up like that. He stood, shaking his head and calling the nurse over. 

"I- I must be going, call this number when they're finished, a car will be sent." Mycroft rushed, handing the beta woman the card and quickly leaving, tucking his umbrella under his arm and gripping the handle of his briefcase. 

He arrived back at the office, rushing into his own office and shutting the door, dropping his briefcase on the floor, leaning his arms on the desk and shuddering. He'd done this, he really had. He shook his head and gathered himself. He had work to do- he would not allow _sentiment_ in the way.

* * *

"Do I need to speak to your alpha, tell him not to try and do this again?" The nurse spoke gently as she unstrapped him, pulling his pants back on over his knees. 

"I'm eleven, I don't have an alpha- just my brother" Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and tugged his trousers from her, putting them on himself. "I did this by myself," He whispered, zipping himself up and squaring his shoulders. The nurse gave him a look between disbelief and contempt. 

"Right, well, remember- a damaged womb is a damaged future, try and take care of it. I can recommend lots of exercises, start working those muscles the right way, can help with conceiving alphas." Sherlock shut his eyes tight and shook his head. 

"Where's my brother? I want to see my brother." Sherlock looked with wide eyes to the door, budging off the table. 

"He's not here, he sent a car." Sherlock swallowed the tears that were burning in his throat. All that time, he was in here being tortured and Mycroft was _gone._ "I'll see you out," She grabbed his hand. He drew his arm away and guarded his hand to his chest. He didn't want to be touched, he realized, never again. 

"I can go myself," She shook her head. 

"I'm afraid you can't, love, against regulations. Have to see you to the car." Sherlock nodded softly and followed her. 

* * *

As the car drove through the muggy June of London, Sherlock let himself cry. He cried and cried, legs crossed, arms wrapped around himself. This was the last time, he decided. No more tears, best to get it over and done with. He would teach himself- train himself, he was quite smart, no matter what anybody said. No more pesky feelings about his body. He wasn't really his body was he? _He_ was inside of his skull, the rest was transport. 

Yes, he rather liked that idea.

He leaned his forehead against the window of the Rols, watching the people that blurred together in lines of color and skin and hair along the buildings and pavement. The car slowed to a stop at a traffic light and Sherlock watched with intense fascination as a group of schoolboys walked by, laughing and clapping shoulders and kicking a football beneath their feet. Sherlock crumpled in on himself, a deep horrific jealousy filling him to the brim, threatening to make him cry some more. 

He'd never met a boy like him before. 

Sure, the lovely girls that came around sometimes as dinner guests, and Martin of course, and Mummy (although Martin and Mummy were both well past the age of having any sort of scent or markers at all). But he'd never seen an omega boy before. Not one that didn't like frilly clothes or painting or stuffy romantic novels. None that snuck into their brother's study to read his University textbooks late at night when Nanny had fallen asleep. None that tried to cut out their own organs in order to be something, _anything_ besides themselves.

He wondered if there even _was_ another person like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! all comments and suggestions are appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

21 January 1936

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as he awoke, popping his head from out beneath his duvet, his hive of tangled curls flopping about as he sat up. Squares of winter sunlights cast over his room, plumes of dust set alight. Esther was pulling open the blinds, setting out his clothes. Martin had died a few years ago, and now the upstairs housemaids looked after him. Sherlock liked her- now that Nanny had been dismissed, she treated him like a grownup- besides the fact she dressed him like a paper doll. Sherlock slipped out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown, stre-e-etching his arms before collapsing back on top of the rumpled bed covers. Esther gave him a pat.

"Up you get, I have to brush _that_ out before breakfast." She pointed to his knotted and snarling hair. Sherlock looked up at his fringes- he didn't mind them curly and crazy. In fact, he adored the way people looked at him when he left them to their own volitions. He sighed and slumped at the vanity, pulling his knees to his chest as she wet her hands in the basin, pulling the water through his hair. It had been a bit of a struggle the first few times they'd tamed the beast, as Sherlock refused all contact from betas or alphas, so Esther had been called in as reinforcement. 

They say that omegas have the best sense of smell. Sherlock could definitely smell something different about Esther. He sniffed the air, eyeing her suspiciously as she tugged the comb through his sensitive strands.

"You're pregnant." Sherlock said obviously, looking at her in the mirror. She only blushed and smiled, nodding a bit, continuing her assault on his scalp. Sherlock winced as she pulled on a particularly troublesome knot. 

"I haven't told Arthur yet, so don't say anything," She smiled to herself as she worked, her stray hand drifting to her apron-covered stomach. Sherlock almost gagged. 

"But, but what about your job, you'll stay won't you?" His eyes were wide, pleading. He couldn't lose Esther. She was his _only_ friend. 

"Love, I'll have pups to look after, I don't know if I'd have the energy, let alone the time, to look after you," She chuckled, his wet hair now slightly combed. Sherlock's lips parted, his face desperate.

"but- but- you can bring them with you, they can stay in the nursery! mummy won't mind, and- and then you can stay. Please, stay," Sherlock grasped her hands as she went to grab the pomade. She shook her head, a bit of sadness in her emerald eyes.

"Sherlock, Arthur wants me at home." Sherlock's stomach dropped and he clenched his hands into fists in his lap, fingernails pressing into his palms. 

"That's not- no, that's not alright, no!" Sherlock tightened his eyes and she set the product down, running her hand through his drying fluff. 

"Sherlock, please, don't make a fuss. I'm happy, I really am. You'll be happy too, someday, and then you can write to me and apologize for making a fuss about this." Sherlock grimaced and shook his head. 

"No, I mean, I'm happy for you, but he shouldn't- you should get to _chose._ " Esther looked him in the eyes through the mirror, placing hands on either of his shoulders and giving him a meaningful little smile.

"Never change, Sherlock," She smiled and turned to leave, the solid oak door closing gently behind her. Sherlock stared at his own reflection. _happy?_ How the hell could he be happy, cooped up in some mansion breeding out some horrid, brutish Alpha's pups? Why were things so messed up! He had his own mind, so did Esther, and Martin, and Mummy too he supposed. He looked over at his clothes. A white cotton button down with short sleeves, with a peter pan collar that was getting popular these days, high-waisted trousers, and his tailored tweed jacket. Esther had laid out a flowered square scarf, which made Sherlock smile. Esther had worn one similar last Friday and Sherlock had mentioned it was pretty. He smiled sadly and stripped of his pyjamas, slipping into the clothes and wrapping the scarf up in his hair like he'd seen women in the village doing, knowing the lower-class style would drive Mycroft mad. _Good._ He looked back at the mirror- maybe it was silly to think that his clothes mattered at all. What a petty, _omega_ thing to concern oneself with. But wearing his hair any way he wanted was _freedom._ He smirked and looked himself over once again before heading down for breakfast.

* * *

"Sherlock what in God's name are you wearing?" Mummy glared as he entered the dining room, and Sherlock glared right back. 

"Mummy, please, can we not swear so early in the day?" Mycroft glanced up from a mouthful of cake, first to his mother and then to Sherlock. He smiled sarcastically and bit his cheek. Sherlock only grinned at their attention, gracefully sitting in his chair, reaching across the spread for the toast. Mummy tutted and Sherlock growled a bit before leaning back properly, rolling his eyes as he spread the jam over it, tucking in ravenously. 

"Careful you don't fill out, Sherlock, we have a few parties to attend in London next month, and you'll want to be thin." Mummy chided from across the table and Sherlock flushed. He looked down at himself- he wasn't fat, was he? He grit his teeth and put his toast down again, crossing his arms and looking over at Mycroft before grabbing part of the paper. Mummy rubbed her temples and Mycroft gave him a look. Screw them! Sherlock thumbed it open and began to read intently. It wasn't that he was interested at all with growing tensions in Poland, or the expansion of the Japanese Empire, or who was prime minister or any of it. Just the simple rebellion of reading the paper like an Alpha was enough. 

"So the King is dead, that's new," Sherlock said absently, sipping his tea. Mycroft sighed and Mummy laughed.

"Oh yes, and I assume you're next in line" Mummy looked to Mycroft incredulously, chuckling to herself. Mycroft looked up, eyes full of seriousness. 

"King George V is dead." Mycroft said, swallowing thickly. "It was on the wireless last night." Sherlock squinted at his nervous looking brother.

"But you knew before then, didn't you?" He said, gloating at the flush in Mycroft's cheeks. "Oh, that's fascinating. Did _you_ kill him?" 

Mycroft didn't say anything. Mummy looked down and ate in silence. Sherlock grinned and ate his toast, feeling quite victorious. Mummy sipped at her tea.

"I hope this doesn't put a damper on the dinner tonight," She said sadly, folding her hands in her lap. 

"I don't know if a party is appropriate the day after the death of a sovereign, mummy." Mycroft raised his eyebrows between bites, and Sherlock groaned. Dinner parties were _tedious._

"It's not really a _party_ , I only had invited Mr. Trevor over last week," She paused and bit her lip, giving Mycroft a look, something secret passing between them. "Should I really cancel on him? After he's just come out of mourning his father?" Mycroft sighed, glancing at Sherlock quickly before shaking his head.

"No, no, he's most welcome. You'll need to be on best behavior, Sherlock- he's in search of a mate." Sherlock scoffed and choked on his tea, coughing a bit, corners of his plush lips turned in a smile. 

"What's that got to do with me?" Mummy scowled.

"You know exactly what, Sherlock. High time you were settled, or at least had _any_ interested courtiers," She shook her head. A mother did her best, but Sherlock was insufferable- smarting off and scaring off even the most keen of alphas. The thirteen year old omega set down his tea and left, quite rudely, throwing his napkin down on the chair and huffing into the hall. Mycroft and Violet shared a look.

What were they going to do with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this terribly boring?? I'm not good at slow-burn, but I wanted to set some things up slower before I let John in and things go crazy. 
> 
> please let me know how I'm doing, I'm rather out of my depth here <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted this to be longer, I promise, but here I am at 4 in the morning, two days after starting this chapter, and I need to get this out or I'll never finish anything.

Mr. Trevor, as it turned out, was bringing along his dull omega sister, who was staying with him, and Violet Holmes was not having it. She sat elegantly at her letter desk, putting down the telephone and sighing, rubbing her temples. There truly was nothing worse than an uneven dinner party. She capped her pen and stood, gracefully striding across her sitting room and into the hallway, down towards the library. She didn't even want to imagine where Sherlock was off to- and she figured that if she did, she wouldn't be happy, and she was already so rather stressed, why bother? She entered the library and was shocked to find her younger son sprawled on the ginormous armchair instead of the older. 

"Sherlock? Where is Mycroft?" The young boy groaned and threw his head back once more, some novel or another folded across his chest. 

"He's in his study, after he _promised_ to take me into town."

"Your brother's very busy, Sherlock, why would you need to go to into town, didn't you just go on thursday?"

"Mummy it's been three whole _days_ in this wretched house, I have to escape!" Sherlock closed his eyes and ignored his mother's presence after he ascertained she'd be no help to his plight.

"Sit up properly, Sherlock, honestly, you act like an animal sometimes." 

"Aren't I?" Sherlock snapped, glaring at his _hateful_ life giver. 

"I'm really not in the mood for one of your monologues, now I'm going to find Mycroft, sit. up. properly." Violet growled, a viscous headache well on it's way and clacked her heels down to the study. She knocked twice and entered without waiting for an affirmative. Positions and power may change, but a mother never waits to open the door. 

"Mykie, I need you to invite another guest for dinner tonight, I don't care who as long as they can use their fork properly and can make any sort of noise so replicating of conversation." Mycroft looked up from his work and nodded slowly, not caring to bother his distressed mother with questions. She nodded and turned quickly, ascending the stairs. Yes, she needed a rest. A rest and a Valium and Violet Holmes would be just fine.

* * *

"You want me to come up to stay?" Greg whispered, leaning back in his chair, tapping his pencil on his desk. Mycroft and him had been seeing eachother for a few years now- very hush hush. My was on his way up in the Secret Service, and Greggory was just still a constable. Besides, an Alpha like Mycroft couldn't be seen courting a drab little beta like Greg, he supposed. 

"It's only mummy needs an extra chair at dinner- we're trying to find someone suitable for Sherlock, and I could use reinforcments," Greg smiled and looked around before whispering into the mouthpiece of the phone.

"My, it's not that I don't want to meet them, it's only-"

"If you don't wish to come, please have candor with me," Mycroft paused, making sure his study door was closed. "You're _important_ to me, of course Mother and Sherlock will meet you, was only a question of when."

"My, no, you can't mean this. They- well, _she'll_ never approve," Mycroft sighed, shaking his head even though Greggory couldn't see him.

"Come up, Greggory, please?" He pleaded, that sharp vulnerability spilling through, the fear and unsuredness so very rarely seen in the cold, icy Alpha. He coughed. "I have some other matters I need to discuss, and I'd much rather do it person." Greg's heart palpitated, another officer looking up across the room and raising an eyebrow at his flushed cheeks. 

"Alright, alright, I'm getting on a train now," Greg stood, wrapping his coat around his shoulders and buttoning it up, phone tucked under his chin. "I-I love you, My," He hung up the phone to prevent Mycroft the discomfort of saying it back. The older man wasn't good with emotions, and honestly, Greg found it fascinating someone like that would rather have _him._ A male to male Alpha beta relationship was, rather rare, not unheard of, but certainly not between an Earl and a bobby for fucks sake! Greg should've turned around, should've broken it off long ago, he thought. But he couldn't help but follow his ruddy stupid, lovesick feet all the way down the pavement to Padington Station, and then to Sherinford.

* * *

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?!" Mycroft shouted as he stepped out onto the gravel, towards the garage to arrange a car for Greggory. His incorragable little brother was filthy, rosy cheeks smeared with some inky substance (petrol?), galoshes thickly stained with sodden dirt, curls caked in mud. A pair of icy sharp blue eyes looked up with that sweet smile of old days. Sherlock waved from across the drive, laughing with the chauffer. The wonders of the internal combustion engine were _fascinating_ to the very bored omega.

"Come over, Mycroft, you'll love this."

Mycroft huffed and strode across the drive, umbrella tucked under his arm and a glare on his face. Sherlock's sweet smile as his eyes flickered over the contents of the bonnet almost made him pause. "Stop bothering Mr. Brooks and go inside at _once."_

 _"_ Oh, he ain't a bother, m'lord, mattera fact he was helping me quite a bit." Sherlock blushed and looked up at his fuming elder brother, his smile fizzling away in a heartbeat into a hard grimmace, but his eyes were swirling and sad. 

"No no, Brooks, no need for inane flattery," Brooks opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock nudged him ever-so-discretly, still watching Mycroft in a sort of challenge. "Sherlock, go inside and get changed. Now, before I have to ask you again."

"Sorry, I'm a bit busy, _brother mine,_ I'll be done in a minute. She's broken down on us, quite a mystery to solve before your little omega tart gets here," Sherlock smirked in victory, wiping grimy fingers on an oily rag- the indentations of the phone earpiece on Mycroft's cheek indicated a hushed, pressured conversation. Mummy needed an extra seat at dinner. Mycroft spent weeks in London now instead of days. Not entirely hard to conclude he was courting someone. God, they were probably dull and well-mannered and godawful like Mycroft. Mycroft grinned cheekily and gave a nod to Mr. Brooks, who took that as his cue to get the hell out of there. Once the garage was devoid of all others, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock by the ear and wrenched him forward. The young omega thrashed and whined, not liking this display of alpha strength at all. Mycroft smiled and pulled Sherlock up into the air by both ears, forcing him to grab ahold of the older man's wrists by his head to keep himself from falling. 

"Let go! Let go of me!" Sherlock wailed, kicking and thrashing, only seeming to anger Mycroft more. 

"You seem to forget your place so often, Sherlock, are you really as clever as you think you are?" Sherlock keened and planted a kick right in Mycroft's solar plexus. A little knowlege of annotomy and an omega was not as helpless as expected. Mycroft groaned and sucked in a breath, dropping a humilated Sherlock to the gravel. "Go inisde. Now. Get cleaned up and don't do it again." Sherlock stiffled a fake chuckle, still desperate to maintain his dignity. 

"Just you wait, Mycroft, you won't always control me." Sherlock smirked. British Government here could boast all he wanted, but the second war broke out Sherlock was leaving. Gonna be a nurse or a mechanic or something equally plain just to tick Mycroft off. 

"Careful what you wish for, little brother," Mycroft tapped his umberalla into the gravel and gave Sherlock a look, pointing to the house, "Now go back inside and do something about your face." Sherlock pushed past Mycroft, huffing back to the house. The elder Holmes shook his head and continued on to speak with Brooks.

* * *

"I'll be leaving next week, Sherlock, so we'll have lots of time to be ready," Esther said sweetly as she handed him the soap in the bath. He huffed and ignored the offering, pushing himself lower into the tub, a mountain of bubbles on top of him. Esther sighed as she set out towells and knelt to scrub the mud out of his hair. "Sherlock, did you hear me?" Sherlock didn't respond, only crossing his arms and sulked like a child. "You really don't have to be so upset, I'm not dying," She smiled and lathered up some shampoo.

"But you're not coming back! That's close enough!" Sherlock looked away, grumbling. 

"How'd you get the mud so thick?" She cried, scrubbing intensely, the brown dirt chipping off of and revealing the chocolately black below. 

"I drove the car into a ditch." he mumbled.

"You don't drive!"

"Well, I didn't think it'd be that hard!" Sherlock growled, sinking under the water like a hippo, eyes over the water. A single inky curled was plastered to his forehead.

"You really are something, Sherlock." Esther shook her head. "Alright, I think we've got him clean enough for you to handle," She pat a sudsy pale shoulder and stood, straightening her apron and collecting some things off the bathroom vanity. Sherlock began to wash his own hair. "Her ladyship said you've got a suitor, huh?" Esther smirked, leaning aginst the vanity and giving Sherlock the eye.

"Oh, please," Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed at her plebian gossip-y nature, "Last thing I want is a mate." 

"It's not so bad," She smiled, rubbing her stumach mindlessly. Sherlock wanted to puke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! <3 all comments and suggestions appreciated


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did anyone really expect the dinner party to be a success??

Drinks were already a nightmare. Greg rubbed his arm and looked at his watch. It had only been 15 minutes- he could've sworn it'd been hours. A terse exchange of "you're Mykie's friend?" "a policeman? Well that's charming." and that was it. Greg was frightfully dull, he decided. He liked lager more than brandy, he smoked cigarettes not cigars, and he'd had to borrow tails from Mycroft- and the shoulders were a smidge too narrow, the middle far to large. Violet hadn't mentioned it, but her appraising up-n-down look had put him in his place the moment he had entered the room. She was scary- for an omega she carried such a lore and respect, everyone was a bit afraid of her. 

The other guests- alpha and omega siblings were dreadful as well. The Alpha was dark and a bit smelly, reeking of pheromones, hair slicked back and dribbling oil. He was some sort of banker, or was it investments? Didn't matter, he hadn't spoken a word to Greg as they sat in this stuffy drawing room, Mycroft was being a saint, nodding as Mr. Trevor rambled on about politics, refilling Greg's whiskey every other time Mr. Trevor cried "outrageous!"

"...It's abominable, I don't understand the appeal, The King, courting a _beta_ , it's atrocious, outrageous! And an American! Parliament won't stand for it- he'll move on and find someone proper...bloody outrageous! Although I do agree with him, we ought to be in better relations with the Germans, hell, war probably did 'em some good! They do things better on the continent, as you know, omegas brought up right. These days every shopkeeper and schoolteacher is leaking slick all over the place, it's dreadful, bloody outrageous!" 

Violet stiffened and coughed at his horribly inappropriate language, and Mycroft only drank some more. Sherlock had yet to come down, and Greg hadn't seen him beyond the framed photo of a 6-year-old in a frilly presentation outfit, a mess of wild curls and freckly rosy cheeks. And as he remembered it, him and Mycroft's had accidentally broken the glass of that photo on one occasion, distracted by other activities on his big oak desk...

"That Hitler's a loud fellow," The poor omega, the young Louise Trevor, meekly added. She was being thrown at Mycroft by her elder brother, both alphas hoping to pawn off a sibling to the other. She wasn't ugly, she was rather pretty, he supposed, all big blue eyes and sandy hair, and to someone who was interested in females probably a good catch. 

"Hush, Louise, here, why don't you refresh my drink," He shoved an empty glass her way and she blushed, rushing off to fill it. Greg scrunched his eyebrows and threw back the rest of his whiskey. He was going to be pissed, and soon, if he didn't watch his liquor. "Now, where is that pretty little brother of yours, I haven't seen him since his presentation. Hope he isn't primping too much on my account." Mycroft burst out a gasping laugh, hitting a fist to his chest to keep from choking. 

"No, no, he's not one for _primping_ ,"

"You really ought to keep him punctual, Myc, if I don't have a firm hand, Louise is always running late- fixing her hair or what not." Louise at the same moment sat gingerly back down on the chaise, handing her brother his drink, wincing as she settled into the seat. Greg wanted to vomit at the implications being made. 

Just as he was about to throw up the 4 glasses of whiskey he'd inhaled, the door was opened and a whirlwind of curls and sharp suit angles and ethereal cheekbones burst in, a bit out of breath. He was beautiful, Greg decided, quite so. Not, run of the mill either, and he smelled divine. Sweet and minty and innocent. 

"Sherlock, please have a seat, we were about to go through," Violet said sweetly, and Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows at her sugary tone. 

"Are you on drugs?" He said suddenly, hands on his hips, breathing a bit laboriously through his nose. Violet only smiled a little more harshly, glaring at her son, who only smirked in return. Back on the tablets again, it seemed. 

"Sherlock, this is Greggory Lestrade, and you know Mr. Trevor and Louise," Mycroft said firmly, eyes pleading with Sherlock to just. behave. Sherlock gave a nod to the siblings, but focused on Greg, cat-like eyes slicing over him, completely fascinated by him. A policeman, it looked like, perhaps lieutenant, constable's more likely. Dark brown hair and brown eyes, quite handsome by societal standards. Cigarette smoker, right handed going by the ink stains. 

"It's lovely to meet you, Sherlock," Greg said with a smile, placing his drink down and walking over to the young boy, clapping his hand in a firm shake. Violet gasped and looked away. Mr. Trevor's eyes were saucers. Sherlock was taken aback at first, and didn't appreciate the sudden contact, but eventually smiled and shook it back.

You didn't just shake hands with omegas, you took one hand and kissed it if you _must_ , and only once you'd spoken and made introductions to their alpha. But Greg didn't care about all that. And knowing My, Sherlock was most likely sharp as whip, and it would be better to have him on his side.

He shared a look with the lanky omega, who seemed to acknowledge the truce that it was. Sherlock dropped his hand and went to the decanter to pour himself something. Mummy tutted disapprovingly but Mycroft gave her a sharp glare. A little alcohol might cool Sherlock off a bit.

Victor growled a bit, not liking being ignored, and walked over to speak with Sherlock. Violet started babbling with Louise to try and keep the mood of the room positive, maybe to dissuade Sherlock from saying something offensive. 

"You've grown a bit since we met before," Victor smiled, and Sherlock only continued to poke through the glass bottles to find something that would do. 

"7 years can do that to a person, yes." Sherlock poured the brandy into the glass and sucked the whole of it down. 

"Beautiful then, impossibly more so now," Victor took the bottle of brandy before Sherlock could say anything and poured him another glass. 

"Beautiful? How original a compliment, I'm absolutely _swooning_ ," 

"Oh, you're bratty, aren't you?" Victor grumbled dangerously, something in his eyes shaking Sherlock to the core. 

"We're going through!" Violet announced across the room, and the rest of the party headed through the door to the dining room. Sherlock looked away for a moment, and Greg watched as Victor poured a splash of a smaller bottle into his drink. He furrowed his brow and cocked his head a bit. Victor's beady eyes flicked over to Greg, and he moved to put the bottle in his coat pocket, but instead placed it back amongst the other decanted liquors. Greg shook his head. Seeing what he did all day, he was being paranoid. He followed Mycroft into the dining room, and Sherlock snatched his drink from Mr. Trevor. 

* * *

The salads weren't even complete before Sherlock started acting funny- drowsily, drunk. His silver wear clattered as his shaking hands dropped them to his plate. 

"Y'alright, Sherlock?" Greg whispered, leaning over, the rest of the table seemingly not noticing. 

"I'm- I'm fine, I'm just- sleepy-"

"So, Mycroft, are you going to Berlin? I think we've a real good chance at the gold this year," 

"No, sporting events aren't my natural milieu."

"Shame, crying shame. How about you, Sherlock, fancy a holiday?"

"Holiday?" Sherlock slurred, attempting to grasp a rouge piece of salad that evaded his fork. 

"You could come with us, to Berlin, and probably onto Cologne and perhaps Paris, then Rome." Victor smiled, his flirting completely for show. It was Mycroft he needed to convince, not Sherlock. Hell, Sherlock could be married tied up in a flour sack, as long as Mycroft signed the papers. 

"Not- don't feel so good-" Greg gasped as Sherlock fell against his shoulder. He'd never seen an omega faint, and the wafting smell of hormones and arousal made every nose at the table sniff. Victor smirked, Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes in embarrassment. Louise only looked sad. 

"Here, I'll take him upstairs," Greg said kindly, swinging Sherlock's arm around his shoulder, guiding him up from the ornate dinner chair and helping him to walk. 

"Thank you, Greggory, his heat room is just upstairs, down the hall and to the left, can't miss it." Greg nodded and lugged the delirious omega down the hall towards the stairs. 

"I'm n-not in heat, I'm not! I've got another two weeks! I'm not! I'm not...Lestrade, I like you, you're not like them, tell them! I'm not..." Sherlock leaned onto Greg's shoulder, "You smell like my brother. Are you his b-boyfirend? No of course you are, he's gonna propose tonight, too! lucky thing, lucky thing..." Sherlock shivered visibly and Greg pulled him up the stairs one at a time. 

"Do you want me to bring up some dinner for you, later, or maybe some tablets to help with the pain? I've got a sister." Sherlock shook his head dramatically, horribly drunk, and collapsed as soon as they were at the top of the stairs. "Oh my, alright," Greg scooped him up and carried him the rest of the way, stopping and biting his lip at the black metal door and deadbolt. 

"Is there anything I can do, Sherlock?" 

"Don't go, you're strong, please stay, I don't know what's happening, please-"Greg shook his head and tried not to let himself get too emotional about this. Omegas weren't themselves in heat, right? They were desperate for sex, for knots, that's all they could think about, right? Greg might not be an Alpha, but he couldn't deny that Sherlock smelled intoxicating. 

"I can't stay, Sherlock, please, just- sleep, sunshine, you'll be alright," Greg placed him softly on the bed, patting his shoulder and turning to leave. He paused. 

"Lestrade, _please_ , something's wrong! I'm not, I'm not in heat! I'm not! I'm- something-" Sherlock's eyes rolled back as a wave of pain rippled through him. Lestrade sighed and mustered up the strength to leave the room and shut that wretched door. He slowly made his way back down the stairs, meeting a chuffed looking Victor halfway down the hall. 

"Oh, hello," The Alpha leered, and Greg gave him a harsh look, the chubby greasy man only raising his eyebrows, his pheromones reeking in the air. 

"Where're you going?" Greg growled, subconsciously squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms, gaurding the hallway. 

"I've got to make a call, study's that way," Victor pointed behind Greg's back and sneered, flashing pearly white canines. 

"I'll go with you, make sure you don't get lost." Victor laughed and tucked his hands into his pockets. There was a terse silence. 

"Oh come on, don't be a spoilsport, you know what they're like, begging for it, I'd be doing the lad a favour- besides, he's as good as mine anyways." 

"He's not yours though, is he? He's Mycroft's, and he's not begging you for anything. Now, please, go back to the dining room and _maybe_ I'll forget what I saw instead of arresting you."

"And what would you be arresting me for, mate?"

"You know damn well what, now get back in the dining room. Now." Perhaps those weren't the right words to use on a randy alpha, and soon Greg had a bloody nose and was down on the ground. He let out a shout and punched Victor in the jaw, rolling over and pining him. There was rustling and soon Mycroft and Violet were there, Louise let out a shocked cry. 

"Get off of him! Let go of him, Victor!" Mycroft shouted, even though it was obvious that the beta was in control. Greg swung his leg off of the seething alpha, giving Mycroft an apologetic look. "What the hell is going on?!"

"Sherlock was drugged," Greg panted, leaning on his elbows. "Heat Inducers, seen 'em before at the Met. Mr. Trevor here was going to force a bond with him." Violet gasped, and Mycroft's eyebrows hunched together.

"Victor, is that true?" Violet demanded, looking upstairs towards her son.

"No of course it's not bloody true, just a ruddy social climbing beta desperate to keep my sister away from Mycroft. Sherlock's omega issues are not my problem,"

"I saw you put something in his drink!" Greg cried, looking to Mycroft desperately. "he's lyin', I swear!"

"really Mycroft, you could do better than to invite dirty city boys inside your house, it's disgraceful."

"Get out of my house. Now." Mycroft seethed, flashing his own set of teeth, snarling at Victor, stepping between him and Greg. "And don't come near my family. ever. again." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more on the way I promise!! <3  
> All comments and critiques are welcomed and appreciated! I'm having loads of fun with this story, thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lil baby chapter for my lil babies

23 January 1936

The sweet whispers of the morning fog had began to dissipate, a slight mist still resting on Sherlock's cheeks, his hair beginning to frizzle at the moisture. The curving green hills of the estate went on for miles in every direction, and from his spot on the iron swing, he could see the little brook where he used to play. The tall Lebanon Cedar trees that swayed in the early winds, memories of attempts to climb them, and the skinned knees and elbows as a result. Sherlock Holmes would not cry. It was only transport. He wouldn't be some blubbering omega, who snapped at the slightest wind. 

* * *

"Do you have any idea how humiliating that was, Sherlock?!" Mycroft had shouted once the Trevor's had left and the intense quasi-heat had reduced.

"For you?! My attempted rape is humiliating for _you?!_ "

"Now, My, please, don't say anything you don't mean," Greg said softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm, eyes wide and soothing. Mycroft huffed and shoved Greg off, glaring at his little brother.

"No, no, don't attempt to placate me- I have held my tongue for long enough, Sherlock. You have only ever brought shame on us- the way you carry on- disgusting attempt to hide the facts of life- the fact that you are not in control. You are under me, you will respect me. you think life will be easy for you? Do you have any idea what will happen if you aren't settled soon?!"

"No, Mycroft, I _don't_! Do tell me again about those _nasty_ breeding centres- the ones you made up to scare me! Well you can't. I'm not afraid of you. Of any of you lot, snarling and reeking of pheromones," Sherlock growled and pushed his brother, shoving him forward barely an inch before Mycroft grabbed him by the wrists to stop him.

"Get a hold of yourself, Sherlock! You're hysterical!" Mycroft seethed.

"Sher-Sherlock, calm down, he's too angry to mean what he says-" Greg's eyes flickered between the opposing brothers. 

"I hate you. I hate you, Mycroft, you're not my brother, and I HATE YOU!" Sherlock bit down on Mycroft's hand, and hard, before running, running as far away as he could. 

"Sherlock!"

* * *

The metal chains of the swing creaked as he slowly pushed himself back. and forth. back. and forth. What was wrong with him? He looked out across the tall green stalks of grass, lush and brightening with the promise of spring. His throat burned with tears that he would not let fall. He knew that some of Mycroft's threats were true. Omegas unbonded by age 20 were drafted, property of the government, to breed for infertile betas and keep the dwindling population up. He still had quite some time before then, didn't he? He would fight till the end, he decided. He would not be mounted, not by anyone. He would kill himself before he was 20, and scare away any alpha Mycroft brought along. He would not let them win. That was the worst thing- to be defeated. 

He traced his fingers along the rusty links of metal, flaking with white paint, thinking of 1833.

_Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs_   
_Receive our air, that moment they are free._   
_They touch our country, and their shackles fall._

"Mind if I join you?" Sherlock's head snapped up to see Gregory, holding a thermos of tea. Sherlock nodded and looked back to the rising sun. "Brought something a bit stronger than tea," Greg held up a cigarette, which Sherlock greedily put between his lips, letting the older man light for him before sucking in the hot smoke into his lungs, the gravely burn smoothing out on a wave of nicotine. 

"Thanks," Sherlock mumbled around the cigarette, still looking away, letting out puff of smoke into the chilly morning air, watching it fade into the fog. 

"You alright, sport?" Greg offered, pulling his cigarette from his lips. 

"I'm fine." 

"Don't seem fine."

"Are you here to scold me?"

"You didn't do anything wrong."

Silence.

"He means well, you know," Lestrade said absently, dragging on his own fag.

"Who, Mycroft?" The constable smirked. Who else would he be talking about?

"He only wants you happy."

"Oh yes, and poor Sherlock, hormonal little bitch, happiness is just a ring on your finger and a pram full of pups, my mistake. I'd trade you in a heartbeat, Lestrade, don't be jealous." 

Greg laughed. But it was a sad laugh that settled between them. 

"You'd make a great detective, you know?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and let out another puff. "You're clever as all hell- you know everything about people just from looking at them."

"And so you decided to fill my head with fanciful nonsense of an omega detective to make me feel better after someone drugged me and induced me into heat? Really, you're doing so well at this brother-in-law affair," Sherlock snapped bitterly. 

"You did spoil that surprise for me, Sherlock, so piss off for that." Greg looked out across the moor and sighed. "Truly, I'm on your side, Sherl, I think it's all horribly unfair." Sherlock looked up slightly, biting his lip. "Not getting a voice, not getting a vote, married off at 13, bloody awful business."

"I don't even have to consent," Sherlock added meekly, "to be married, Mycroft's the only one with the say in it."

"Not the only one," Greg smiled, "I'm on your side remember."

"You mean, I won't have to get married? You'll protect me?"

"I can't promise you that, Sherlock, but I would never let him force you into anything." Sherlock nodded, not letting himself get his hopes up. 

"Besides, who'd want an omega like me?" Sherlock added, swallowing nervously and putting out the butt of the cigarette. 

"Oh come on Sherlock, don't be like that,"

"Be like what? Honest? I'm hardly good looking, let alone obedient, Lestrade. I'm a disappointment that Mycroft's antsy to be rid of. Good luck to him. I'm running away soon anyways." Lestrade watched as Sherlock stood and shook out his jacket, rubbing a spot on the ground with the tip of his rubber boot. 

"I'll make you a deal, Sherlock, if you promise not to do anything stupid. Stay and I'll wrestle My into letting you come to London with me. You can stay at our flat, you won't be lonely in the city."

"I'm not lonely."

"Fine, fine. But I can only negotiate that if you promise that you'll accept an alpha. You can choose, but you deserve happiness, stability."

Sherlock sat in shock, he was practically catatonic. Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows in concern. There was a tense silence. London? Was this a joke? The alpha part he'd negotiate later- hell, London? A thousand places to run to in London. 

"I accept." Sherlock whispered, shaking slightly in elation. 

"Good lad." Lestrade smirked and clapped his shoulder before grinning, his brown eyes glowing. 

"Lestrade?" Sherlock called as the older beta moved to go back inside.

"Yeah?"

"You don't think- there's something wrong with me? sometimes I wonder...if I'm broken or something" Lestrade's brows scrunched together and he bit his lip. Sherlock kept his eyes on his twiddling fingers.

"broken?"

"I'm not, like other omegas, I don't like painting or decorating or cooking...I've never fancied anyone,"

"I don't think you're broken. You're different, you're just a bit of an odd duck, but really, you're a lovely omega Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up at Greg, his blue eyes sparkling with a hopeful sadness. His cheeks flushed a pale pink, his curls unruly and falling around his eyes in frizzy ringlets. He was a strange kind of beautiful.

"And a lovely little brother, and a good friend." 

They smiled. Brothers _. Friends._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love you all so very much! please tell me what you think! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain John Watson makes his introductions

6 January 1939

It was his birthday, and Sherlock Holmes wanted nothing to do with it. He knew absolutely none of these people that Mycroft had invited to this hateful party. Well, if he did know them he must've deleted it. He stretched out further, sprawled on the big leather arm chair in the study, his first glass of champagne already settled in his tummy and leaving him a bit floaty. Oh, that and the opium. But who needed to know about that little secret. Sherlock didn't even flinch when the large oak door burst open, a peeved looking Mycroft glaring at him.

"Sherlock. This is _your_ party, the least you could do is attend."

"Um, _no_." Sherlock smirked, curls flopping back across the leather armrest. 

"I will not ask again, Sherlock." Mycroft said calmly, that bastard. As if he was frightening in the slightest. Sherlock's tummy was disagreeing with him, his alpha had given him orders, and every second under his harsh gaze was torture. Damn his fucking instincts- damn his whole body. Sherlock stood begrudgingly, his amygdala rewarding his obedience with a second rush of endorphins. That was the tricky thing about the opium and the alcohol and the pretty white pills he swiped from the chemist- lowered inhibitions meant less protection from baser, submissive tendencies that were loathsome. 

"I hate parties. I hate birthdays. I invited none of these people, and I can see through your veiled auction block a mile away. Like me to strip naked so they know what they're buying?" Sherlock barked as he straightened his suit jacket, looking down at his hatefully shiny shoes. Shameful french leather work, so subpar to Italian, but not like there was an option there anymore. 

"Don't be trite. Gregory's the one who wrangled these people, convince them to celebrate another year of your existence, really, quite difficult a task I assure you." Mycroft retorted. Sherlock bit his lip, not letting himself be hurt. Mycroft held open the door and Sherlock growled, huffing and crossing his arms to rejoin the gathering. "Be sure to smile,"

"Fuck off."

* * *

Sherlock had resigned to sitting on the plush sofa that was probably a thousand years old and smoking. A bit of a nasty habit for an omega, they say, but fuck them. A snappy dressed Greg made eye contact from across the room, excusing himself and bustling through the flood of black tie and cocktail dresses. He approached and put hands in his pockets before biting his cheek and giving Sherlock a look.

"Got any offers yet?" Sherlock huffed, pulling his cigarette from his lips in a cloud of smoke. Greg only shook his head, amused, sighing and nursing his scotch. He was interrupted by a tall, ginger alpha, with freckled cheeks and sharp green eyes that devoured Sherlock. He couldn't be younger than 40. Sherlock was 16.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," He sneered, giving Greg a sideways territorial glare. Greg only rolled his eyes. Typical Alphas. "dance with me." Sherlock opened his mouth to say no, but Greg raised an eyebrow, as if to say _you owe me_. Sherlock swallowed nervously, eyeing the offered hand like it was a knife. He slowly took it, hating the touch- god his senses were begging him to stop. 

"I'm Thomas," The Alpha whispered harshly in his ear, pulling him close with a hand low on his back as the music started up again. Sherlock's skin flushed, and Thomas's nose trailed along his neck, breathing in gulps of Sherlock's sweet, fertile smell. "You smell divine, princess, how's a sweet thing like you still not found a mate?" Sherlock gagged at this repulsively old man that was far too close. Far too close.

A slick wet tongue found it's way along Sherlock's earlobe and he froze, a solid statue even as everyone else moved rhythmically to the fox trot crackling from the phonograph. Thomas' awful breath fogged at his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight. This was too close. He was too close. Touching him. Someone was touching him. Sherlock whimpered as Thomas bit down on his ear, and Thomas only chuckled- gripping Sherlock's hand like a vice, hand at the small of his back leading him off the dance floor. Sherlock didn't want to go with him. He shouted at his feet to stop! Stop! But he was far to high and far too drunk to be in control of his transport. Thomas pulled him out of the main room and into the corridor, pressing him against the wall, hands on either side of his face, devouring his neck. Mummy would _kill_ Sherlock if she saw this. Mycroft would be over the moon. Sherlock wanted to disappear.

"S-stop, I don't- I want to go back to the party-"

"Shhh princess, we both know you were terribly bored. Nobody'll miss you for a moment," Thomas breathed, teeth nibbling spots along Sherlock's collar bone- when had the buttons of his shirt been undone? 

"N-no- s-stop, please, stop," Thomas smiled and put a knee between Sherlock's legs, holding him in place, even firmer against the wall. 

"I won't bite you, little thing, just have a little bit of fun, huh? Or are you not that kind of boy?" Thomas whispered in his ear, breath hot and foul smelling. "Because I think you're oh-so naughty..." Sherlock gasped as Thomas was pulled off of him, the redheaded man growling in frustration, turning to leer his canines at whomever was usurping his territory. Sherlock's eyes pinched closed, heart racing, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson- the smell of two alphas in conflict sending involuntary shivers and shakes through him. 

"He said no, mate, best be off now," A low, calm voice spoke, but Sherlock kept his eyes firmly closed. He wasn't here. This wasn't real. He pleaded outside of his mind palace for entry, but he was far too frightened to think clearly at all.

"Get your nose out of it, Watson, this one's mine,"

"Do you really want to discuss this? I doubt Mr. Holmes would appreciate this, and I'd hate for you to lose your job and that nice little wife of yours to be out on the streets, wouldn't you agree Corporal?" 

Thomas huffed, Sherlock could smell his anger boiling, and his omega was begging him to cower, run, comply. He shook his head, teeth digging into his bottom lip, breath hitching in and out through his nose in pathetic whimpers. There were footsteps, shuffling of fabric, the slight shift in gait of a man who favored his left leg, and a much more pleasant scent- whiskey and gunpowder and strawberry jam (?). Sherlock peeked one eye open, his heart beating out of his chest. He fearfully looked down, refusing to look in the eyes of the powerful man in front of him. His rational mind was out the window, his instincts in full control, and he tilted his head to offer his neck in submission. He received a curt chuckle, warm callused fingers gripping his chin and pulling his gaze from the ornate hall carpet. 

"Are you alright?" The Alpha said softly, looking down the hallway quickly to make sure Thomas was gone before looking Sherlock over, as if he were made of delicate china that may have been cracked. Sherlock's breath caught. A slightly familiar face of warm tan skin, indigo eyes, sandy blonde hair parted down the side and slicked a bit like the young alphas did these days- sharply dressed in a pressed army green uniform button down. A Captain based on his insignias, his cap tucked under his elbow, muscular biceps flexed beneath the fabric of his standard-issue sleeves. His fingers traced along Sherlock's face, turning it lightly and examining the damage to his neck with flickering deep blue eyes the colour of the Atlantic when it kissed the white cliffs of dover. 

Sherlock was lost at sea.

"f-fine," He whispered, his powers of spoken word quite gone. Sherlock was still shaking, and Captain Watson had a bit of concern still on his face as he watched him intently. His sharp gaze pinned Sherlock, his heart racing. What the hell was going on? He needed to get in control. Now. His omega was begging him, to do something, kiss this man, anything for those hands to touch his skin once more. 

Omega Sherlock was an idiot.

"I have to go." Sherlock said abruptly, turning away and sprinting down the corridor, face still burning hot with embarrassment and oh dear god, some other unearthly feeling he could not describe. Suddenly, strong tan fingers grasped his hand as he left, pulling him back. Sherlock's eyes went wide and he tried to tug away, before this baser creature inside him did anything stupid. The Alpha's sweet aroma made him wobbly, and he made only meek attempts to escape as a second hand came back to rest on his chin, turning his head to the side once more. 

"Darling, he broke the skin here," The delicate pad of an index finger brushed against a stinging part of his ear. "Let me clean it, alright?" Sherlock was dumbstruck, his eyes not leaving the slight turn at the corner of this man's lips, a sweet little smirky smile that sent Sherlock's tummy on a rollercoaster. Not that he'd ever been on one. Or seen one in person, in fact. Sherlock nodded dumbly, the army captain only grinning and pulling Sherlock's hand to sit down on a bench, kneeling in front of him and patting his thigh before striding off to find supplies.

Courting. A flash of a dusty medical journal in Mycroft's study came to mind. 

_The offering of sustenance or physical care to an omega is the first step of courtship, often as a tea service at the Alpha Presumptive's residence in company of the Alpha Patronus._

shit. 

* * *

Dr. John Watson had never seen anyone as beautiful as Sherlock Holmes. He had been sitting on that lounge for a the better part of an hour, smoking those damn cigarettes. Cpt. Watson wasn't a square, he smoked a bit, but chain smoking like that could do serious damage to delicate omega lungs and tissue. Sherlock Holmes was a different kind of beautiful, angelic and ethereal with a halo of chocolate curls. He was graceful and elegant, even though he was barely a teenager. Quite different from the meek timid sweet things he tended to meet at parties like this. His catlike eyes watched all with a quiet and knowing disdain, an aloof poshness covering up a crippling shyness that was endearing to a scrappy city boy like John Watson. 

Watson was ignoring the cigar-invested conversation of the group he was standing with, transfixed by the creature in the corner. It was his birthday, but he looked like he'd rather be dead then be here with a bunch of old toffs. John couldn't agree more. He swallowed a last sip of whiskey and excused himself, giving himself a bit of a pep talk before approaching him. 

Thomas. Disgusting, married _bonded_ Thomas, who in 12 years of service had never risen above Corporal. It didn't take a genius to figure out why. Bastard was an absolute prick. And he was _touching_ Sherlock, sweet perfect Sherlock- touching his hand, his back, he was kissing his ear! Jesus Christ! John growled, clenching his fist by his side. _Calm down, John. Now's not the time to beat the shit out of him. Save that for later._ He straightened his shoulders, tightening his jaw in a firm stare before marching to follow them into the corridor. 

* * *

Sherlock watched in abject horror as John returned with a tiny black bottle of antiseptic, turning it over onto his handkerchief before kneeling in front of a still-shaking Sherlock, whose eyes pressed closed even before he touched his ear. 

"Shh, it only stings a bit, darling," Sherlock shuddered at the delicate touch of John's fingers around his knee, thumb rubbing a soothing circle there. He wanted to cry at all the things he was feeling. _Shut up Sherlock shut up you're better than this stop being so weak!_ He paused, biting on his lip to compose himself. 

"I don't want to court you." He said plainly, but John didn't miss a beat. His eyebrows twitched a bit and his smile faded in disappointment, but his hand rest solidly on Sherlock's knee. John rubbed a bit of blood from the inside of his ear, tracing a bit at the pale white flesh of his cheek before leaning back on his heels and looking up at Sherlock, taking a single hand in his and planting a kiss. 

"Would you dance with me, Sherlock?" John said softly to his hand, breath warm and sweet and sending a shiver on the skin of his knuckles. The omega swallowed thickly, lip quivering ever so slightly, trembling under the soft gaze of the alpha's amorous eyes. 

"I'm rubbish at dancing," Sherlock said glumly, tummy tied in knots. 

"What a turn up for the books, I'm rubbish too" He smirked and Sherlock giggle in spite of himself, if not only from nervousness. "Now come on, let's get out of here,"

"Get out of here...but you wanted to dance?" Sherlock asked softly, looking more and more like a lost kitten by the minute. John smiled warmly, wrapping Sherlock's arm around his, leading him down the corridor and out into the night, enjoying the innocent and incredulous eyes that watched him intently. 

"I know a spot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my loves! please tell me what you think, your comments and suggestions make me so happy!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a brief note- Imperialism is gross 
> 
> also, some tunes for this chapter:  
> Tommy Dorsey - I'm Getting Sentimental Over You  
> Glenn Miller- Moonlight Serenade

The air was cool on Sherlock's cheeks as they walked, the constant clacking of the captains shoes a steady rhythm to his heart, the haze of the opium and champagne beginning to clear as he stared at the stars. Their arms remained intertwined, but Sherlock resisted the urge to lean his cheek onto his shoulder, and settled for pretending to be fascinated by their surroundings. Sherlock had never been in this part of town, and there were a few other couples going up and down the pavement, and Sherlock received a couple of catcalling whistles. The captain's scent only grew stronger, safer, and Sherlock drifted closer and closer as they walked.

"I'm Sherlock," He said awkwardly, and the captain chuckled, unfolding his arm and wrapping round his waist, leaving Sherlock only the option to lean on him, the fabric of his uniform just a teensy bit irritating to the skin, but it smelled heavenly to rest his nose near the captain's neck.

"I'm John," The alpha smiled and squeezed Sherlock's waist a bit. Sherlock shuddered, his heart seizing. _John_.

"India or Australia?" Sherlock said softly, watching the captain's cufflinks that poked out of his jacket sleeves with fascination. The captain looked down at him quizzically, but not angrily. 

"India- Calcutta, how'd you know, love?" 

"Your tan, you've been in the sun, but your tan is only below your wrists and above your neck. You're only 25 or so, and I doubt you enlisted at 18, so you've risen ranks rather quickly. Where can a British army doctor get some sun these days and attain a nice post of Empire? India or Australia." Sherlock bit his lip and looked up nervously, icy blue eyes twinkling with flecks of green. 

"Brilliant," John licked his lips and pulled his arm from around Sherlock, never losing contact as he found Sherlock's hand in his, pulling him along to a darkened building. "Quite extraordinary," The doctor said mostly to himself.

John looked round in a potted plant on the step, pulling out a set of keys and opening the large white double doors. He pushed open the door, flicking on the lights and pulling Sherlock along into the empty dance hall, still stale from second-hand smoke and snuck-in booze. The floor was sprinkled with paper pieces, banners running along the ceiling. 

"It's empty," Sherlock said obviously, looking round, pressing a lone piece of confetti between his fingers. John smirked, walking over to the phonograph, cranking the handle and putting the needle down, the large amplifier twirling out into the empty room. Soon the silence was softened by a crackling melody of _Getting Sentimental Over You_ \- sweet and soft trumpets and trombones flaring and swelling like a sea. The kind of american music Mycroft detested, and the kind of place Greg told him never to go to unless he wanted people to think he was easy. 

"They all close at 11," John flicked his wrist up and smiled down at his watch. "It's close to midnight now, so it's all ours." Sherlock's mouth sat slightly agape as he took in the decorated room- empty punch bowl and cigarette butts all over the floor, crumpled cocktail napkins lying abandoned and disheveled. It was a strange kind of magic that only the cleaners saw. 

"Aftermath," Sherlock whispered as a firm hand found it's way back to his waist, his own hand just naturally finding it's place on an army green shoulder, their hands clasped together as John began to lead. 

Sherlock was not rubbish at dancing, it turned out.

Neither was John.

Slowly, as the tune began to drift, their shuffling feet echoing round the room, Sherlock's cheek found it's way down onto a gentle and strong shoulder, eyes closed, mind fuzzy and warm in the arms of an army captain with eyes the colour of forget-me-nots.

"So poshboy, tell me," John said sweetly, voice low and dripping with honey, "will we be dancing again friday night?" 

"friday?" Sherlock whispered into John's neck.

"After I talk to your brother, if you'd prefer?" The sobering thought of his loathsome brother knocked him right out of the trance- foggy senses beginning to clear. Fuck! Fuck he was, dancing, practically scenting this beastly alpha who could snap him in two and smelled really really good...

_Get yourself together Sherlock!_

"I-" Sherlock bit his lip, the thought of telling this man to bugger off was suddenly not so appealing. Maybe this one's different...he is awful pretty...

"It's alright darling, we don't have to think about that, just dance with me," John's gravely whisper was warm and sweet in his ear as he pulled him close once more, but Sherlock's heart wasn't in it. He lay his head back down on a warm shoulder once again, if only because his mind was too full of heavy thoughts to hold up on his own. 

John pulled away for a moment, fingers grasping his chin and turning their eyes to meet. In that moment all the thoughts and the hurt and the confetti disappeared, it was only John. The edges of the world melted away and seemingly came into focus all at once. John's hands found their place on Sherlock's cheeks, thumbs brushing his curls from his ears, holding him tight as their lips collided- a sweet soft and innocent first kiss at first, Sherlock quite frazzled and unsure, pressing back just a tiny bit, John's mouth claiming his own, fingers twirling through his hair, a single hand pressing gently to his face. Sherlock's heart raced in his chest, hands shaking as he rest them on top of John's before John pulled away, breathless, the tiny space between them warm and tingly on his skin. 

"I want to be with you, Sherlock," John whispered, petting his hair softly, still swaying to the music. Sherlock's eyes welled with tears- tears of frustration. He shut his eyes and shook his head, not allowing himself to cry after being kissed. 

"I-" Sherlock swallowed, his voice cracking just a tiny bit, "I'm not like that- I'm not, you wouldn't want me, I have to go." Sherlock pulled away, feet fumbling under him, ignoring John calling after him, the dancehall door swinging open and shut as he dashed out into the night- shivering at the rain that soaked his hair almost immediately, dripping into his eyes as he ran. 

"Sherlock! Wait!"

* * *

Greg sighed, throwing back another glass of something or another as Mycroft's panic intensified, the flat stale with smoke, the party quite over and Sherlock still missing.

"Mykie, I've called the station- they're doing what they can, why don't you just sleep and let me handle this, honey?" Greg soothed, rubbing across Mycroft's back as he paced the hall. "We'll find him,"

"You can't say that, Gregory, you're frightened yourself! The apperature of your pupils, the tremor in your hand, besides the fact you've looked at the phone three times in the last minute. You're nervous. You think he's in trouble." Mycroft snapped, voice harsh and dominating, clearly needing to express his own fear. Greg didn't mind, wrapping his arms around _his_ British Government, leaning his head on his shoulder, shock of chestnut hair brushing against his neck. 

"He'll be alright."

 _Ring Ring!_

The phone was almost instantaneously in Gregory's ear, Mycroft's eyes wide, lip almost surely chewed through. 

"Holmes Residence," 

"G-Greg?" Sherlock whimpered on the other end. 

"Sherlock! Where are you?!" Mycroft gasped, already swinging on his coat.

"Erm," Sherlock paused, shivering, "Hackney, I think, I'm in a call box. I got l-lost, I'm cold." Sherlock shuddered, looking round the rainy streets. 

"Alright, Sherlock, we're on our way, are you safe?"

"I th-think so- I don't know where to go, and I'm cold."

"Alright, Sherlock, can you tell me what street you're on, love?" Sherlock squinted through the panes of glass. 

"Mare Street? I'm scared, Greg, I'm not, I let myself-" Sherlock let out a broken sob before biting it back. "Please come get me, I'm really cold." 

"We're on our way, sunshine, just stay calm, stay by the callbox, don't talk to anyone." Greg put down the phone, swinging his coat around his shoulders and grabbing Mycroft's hand, looking into his fearful, pale blue eyes. "He's alright."

* * *

When a rainsoaked Sherlock was finally brought home, wrapped in a certain constable's coat, shivering terribly, there was a distraught blonde army captain waiting on the steps. 

"Dr. Watson, hello," Mycroft said, holding his umbrella over his husband and brother as they exited the car. John's eyes were frantic, glowing wide and concerned as a tiny shivering omega approached the door. John rushed off his feet, tucking his hat under his arm, coming to Sherlock and leaning in to inspect him, placing a hand on his forehead. He was a bit too warm for John's liking.

"Sherlock! Are you alright?!" A pair of innocent and diaphanous silver eyes found him through drizzly black fringes before looking down, embarrassed and flushed pink. 

"m'fine," He mumbled, Greg giving John a knowing look before taking Sherlock inside. Mycroft and John stood awkwardly, watching the pair of them go inside. 

"So this is where you tell me to bugger off right?" John said sadly, a bit sarcastic, looking over to the redheaded alpha who wasn't more than a few years older than himself. Mycroft's eyes raised, pulling a cigarette case from inside his jacket, offering one to John silently, who accepted, offering his light. 

"What is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft said, the end of his cigarette glowing bright orange as he inhaled the lovely smoke. John raised his eyebrows and put his right hand in his trouser pocket.

"I like your brother quite a lot."

"That part was _fairly_ obvious. But a nice solider chap like you probably wants a dutiful housewife to come home to, have a nice family." Mycroft coughed a bit, "In the interest of full disclosure, you won't find that in my brother." John took a lungful in and let the smoke come out his nostrils, still looking forlornly at the closed door. 

"I'd like to marry him."

Mycroft looked over quite suddenly, as if that was the last thing he expected John to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any thoughts my loves? <3


	11. Chapter 11

14 February 1939

The card sat perfectly innocently on it's silver tray, the engraved platinum letter opener sitting silently atop it. The envelope was a pale blue, not too expensive of stationary, and clearly the paper had been sitting in a cupboard for a while- not someone who writes letters often. Sherlock looked at it intensely, his own name was scrawled across the front- a slight ink smudge on the _S_ indicated the fountain pen had been held by someone left-handed. That was a bit rare- most schools would make you use your right.

"Letter for you, Sherlock," Mycroft said smoothly, almost guileful as he flicked through his paper. Gregory sat beside him, tucking in to a plateful of breakfast, giving Sherlock _those_ eyes that made him nervous.

"I can see that much. Whatever for?" Mycroft and Gregory shared a look, and the newly appointed sergeant reached over to rub a circle into the arm of Mycroft's jacket. "And why are we all having breakfast like this, don't you have a government to run?"

"we never get to have breakfast as a family anymore, Sherlock, mummy would be so upset." Sherlock's eyes gleamed a layer of ice. Mother had been dead for some time, as omegas without their mates suffered loads of medical weaknesses. Greg gave Mycroft a warning squeeze and the alpha only looked down to his paper again. Sherlock gave them both an incredulous stare before slouching into his chair, examining the letter in more detail. He gave it a whiff before having to close his eyes and pull it away from his nose. It had been sprayed with some very familiar pheromones. Jesus Christ it smelled good. He very slowly ripped the side of the envelope, the letter opener smooth and sharp, before pulling out a small card with a bundle of forget-me-nots embossed on it's cover, some frightfully sentimental poem or nonsense printed below. He opened it.

_Happy Valentines Day_

_from,_ _John_

Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of omega who blushed. He wasn't. He _wasn't_ blushing. Simply the cold weather, that's why his cheeks flushed with crimson and his heart beat faster than a train. He swallowed nervously and placed the card to the side, fingers resting on it's front, as if he were making sure it wouldn't disappear. 

"What's the meaning of this?" Sherlock said finally, eyebrows furrowed into a glare. Greg smirked and shoveled some bacon into his mouth, looking over to Mycroft with a look that said _you get to tell him, not me._ Mycroft cleared his throat. 

"I've invited your _fancy man_ to tea next week, as he's already completed the first step of courtship, and I believe that it's the fourteenth of February, an arduous holiday in my opinion."

"It's romantic," Greg added, blushing the slightest, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Wait a moment, Mycroft, he is _not_ my "fancy man", I'm not looking for an alpha, so he really shouldn't have wasted his time on _this_ ," Sherlock waved the card in the air, even though he really only wanted to tuck it into his breast pocket, feel it next to his heart, breathe in that safe, warm, musky smell... "I don't ever want to be married." Sherlock declared, letting the card find it's place next to his plate. Greg's lips quirked into a sad smile, and gave Mycroft a pinch, as if to say _let me handle this._

"Sherlock," He said, "we had a deal. It's been two years of you growling and nipping at every Alpha you see. And now, I've met Dr. Watson a few times, he's an upright bloke, and I think you could love him, if you'd stop being so stubborn. I've sat back and let you ignore all advances, but not anymore." 

Sherlock gasped, huffing and slamming a hand on the table, rattling the china.

"Sherlock. Listen to me," Greg's voice took on an aggressive, dominating tone, he could use his alpha half when he needed to. "He wants to get to know you. He really doesn't have to, you know. My could sign the papers and you'd be in his bed tomorrow."

"-be in a breeding stand tomorrow," Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms and squaring his shoulders. 

"Now, Dr. Watson is coming for tea next week. End of story."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised, maybe slightly chuffed at the sight of his mate, showing his strength. Sherlock grit his teeth, pushing his chair out and leaving, and everyone at the table knew that the card in question had been deceitfully slipped into his hand. He ran up the stairs to his room, two at a time. He dropped the letter to the floor, face flushing with anger and embarrassment. He was not some animal to be bought and sold. He rushed to his desk and picked up the handle of the telephone. 

"Hello, Information,"

"Yes, I'd like to know the address of Mrs. Esther Smith, in Sherinford"

"Do you know her husband's name?" Sherlock sighed, growling just a tad.

"Arthur Smith."

"One moment."

* * *

The train carriage huffed along the tracks, Sherlock's teacup rattling in it's saucer. He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the firm seat. Sherlock opened his eyes, peering out at the blurring mottled greens and browns of the country, whirring by like a rain soaked painting. 

"You really didn't have to come, Lestrade." Greg looked up from his something or another, giving Sherlock a furrowed brow. Sherlock still insisted on calling him by his maiden name, as a way to further unacknowledge Mycroft's existence. 

"S'not safe for you to travel alone." Sherlock growled, forehead resting on the foggy glass, ignoring his terribly overprotective brother-in-law. "Here, why don't you help me with this." 

"With what?" Sherlock huffed, and Greg flipped his folded newspaper towards him, flicking the pencil in his fingers and offering it. Sherlock looked down at the white and black boxes half filled with penciled letters. 

"Go on, you're hell of a lot brighter than I am."

"It's a puzzle." Sherlock said obviously, eyeing Greg before leaning in and examining the instructions.

"Yes."

"Give me five minutes."

* * *

Sherlock swallowed nervously, fixing his scarf into his hair, pulling a single curl out to rest on his forehead, adjusting his jacket sleeves. The cottage was not what he expected- mossy, craggling stone, with a sagging black roof that ached under the weight of years of heavy rain. The stone path was littered with abandoned toys, and Sherlock smiled and picked up a small bear with musty brown fur and black button eyes. Greg didn't seem bothered by the state of the house, so Sherlock stiffened his upper lip and went on, knocking at the door, flinching at the sound of a wailing child. There was scuttling before the door swung open.

It wasn't Esther. This woman was battered, pale with frazzled hair, apron around her waist dotted with stains and patches. A bleary eyed toddler hid between her legs, poking his little head of curly blonde hair out of her skirt, looking up at Sherlock with shy blue eyes. On her hip was a baby, sobbing it's tiny lungs out, little knit cap slipping over it's ears. 

"Sherlock... what're you doing here?" She smiled sadly, embarrassed, and looked over to Gregory. 

"I came to see my friend," He said kindly, his omega instincts begging him to tend to the crying child, and he looked down at the bear in his fingers, kneeling down to the shy toddler boy. "Is this yours?" He nodded, grasping the bear close to his chin, retreating behind his mother. 

"Come in, come in both of you, I can make tea, if I can find some...." Esther mumbled, scatter-brained, still trying to soothe the baby. "I've tried to get her to sleep but she just won't sleep, she needs to sleep" 

"I think you both need to sleep, Esther," Sherlock said softly, holding his arms out, the baby reaching out and curling into him, Greg lurking behind him, taking in the sight of Sherlock holding a child and rocking back and forth to soothe her. "What's your name?" He said softly, adjusting her cap as she began to calm. 

"oh, thank you, she's been crying all afternoon, this is Emilia, and that is William," Sherlock's eyes twinkled and Esther smiled a bit. Emilia reached a tiny fist out and grabbed at Sherlock's face, teeny little fingers tracing his chin. Sherlock smiled and bobbed up and down, Esther briefly kissing Emilia's forehead before rushing off to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock furrowed his brows at the slight limp in her step, and now that he looked carefully, hand shaped bruises wrapped around her arms, tiny thumb print marks on the sides of her neck. Sherlock watched as William introduced Greg to his bear, meeting the policeman's eyes. He swallowed and turned to the tiny, dark kitchen, eyeing the mould that grew in the dank, mildewy corners.

"Esther, how did you get those marks?" Sherlock tucked Emilia's head into his neck, pointing to her wrists as she held the kettle under the tap. Her cheeks flushed, and she rolled down her sleeves, setting the kettle on the stove. 

"Sherlock. It's nothing, stop making a fuss."

"It was Arthur, right?" Sherlock said angrily.

"Sherlock, I said, _stop_ it!" 

"He hurt you!" Sherlock cried indignantly.

"Stop it, _now."_

"But if he hurt you, you should say something, stop him from-"

"I SAID ENOUGH, Sherlock! You may live happy and free in your own little fantasy, but the rest of us live in the real world. I love my alpha, I love my husband, and our private matters are none of your business. Now go. Get out of my house."

"Go?" Sherlock's eyes were wide, saucers, as she seethed at him. He didn't understand. If she was hurt, wouldn't she want help? Greg pulled Emilia from Sherlock's arms and placed her in the highchair at the dining table, which upset her terribly, and she let out another screeching wail, tears streaming down her face, reaching back for Sherlock.

"Come on, Sherlock, your friend asked us to leave, don't be rude," Greg pulled his hat back on and tipped it to Esther before clapping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, giving him a strong look. 

"But-" Greg cut him off, pushing him by the shoulder out the door, closing it behind them before Sherlock could protest. A hot ball of emotion was climbing up Sherlock's throat, and he felt tears welling in his eyes. He pushed Greg's shoulders, glaring up at him.

"You're a policeman, arrest him!"

"Sherlock, calm down, there's nothing I can do, Sherlock, and some things are better left alone." Sherlock stomped his foot, feeling younger and younger, like a child again, powerless.

"You- hypocrite! Liar! there _must_ be something you can do!"

"Sherlock, are you proposing I rob those children of their father and that woman of her bondmate because of some rough handling? What do you think goes on in marriage? Love, honour, and _obey_ , Sherlock. I'm not saying it's right, but it is what it is."

It had begun to rain, tiny droplets that splattered little patterns across Sherlock's flaming cheeks, hiding the tears that fell. Greg put an arm around his shoulder and led a paralysed Sherlock back down the road into the drizzle. 

_"_ N-nobody should get to do that anybody else." Sherlock said softly, "Nobody should get to hurt anybody else."

"I know, Sherlock." 

* * *

20 February 1939

Sherlock clenched his fist, his fingers shaking horribly. It had been a week since the incident, but her face still haunted him every time he closed his eyes. She was hurting, she was alone. If only Sherlock wasn't so, whatever he was, if he wasn't broken, he could help. If he was an alpha, he could help. But he wasn't was he? He'd never be anything but this- weak and powerless creature that stared back at him as he stood in front of the washroom mirror, reminded of a certain time years ago and a pair of scissors. There was a knock.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft. "Sherlock, Dr. Watson's here," The omega took one look into his own eyes, loathing his tiny frame, strange features, weakness, before turning and exiting into the hall, hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, Mycroft giving him a glare- his grey tweed jacket was unbuttoned, he refused to wear a tie, and his hair was an untamed creature of curls that dipped in his eyes. 

The gold clock in the drawing room ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. John Watson and Greg Lestrade-Holmes sat across from each other. The army captain was practically incandescent, fiddling with his hands, nervous energy building in his chest. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Beautiful and sweet and brilliant and going to have tea with _John,_ courting with _John_. Boring old army boy John. Second born, just a bit scrappy John. His eyes flickered a bit around to the paintings and ornate furniture, giving Greg eyebrows, to which he only laughed. They both looked rather silly in a grand feminine room like this. The door burst open to reveal a peeved looking Mycroft, dragging a very obstinate Sherlock by his arm. Sherlock was just as beautiful, if not more so, in the daylight- sharp blue eyes and riotous midnight curls that shone, soft and bright like a glossy advert or film star. His pale, milky skin glowed with a embarrassed, rosy flush- oh, to see the rest of it, to carve sweet kisses and bite all along that expanse of marble flesh, to mark as _his._

"Sherlock," He said, standing, buttoning his suit jacket, taking a delicate hand in his own, kissing the knuckles softly while finding those icy slate blue eyes. Sherlock's cheeks and neck glowed crimson before he pulled his hand away, holding it close to his chest, looking to Greg for help. Ah, shy boy huh?

"Mr. Holmes," John said, eyes still slightly on Sherlock as he made his way to the sofa next to Greg, eyes glued to the floor. He shook hands with the ginger alpha and they shared a curt smile. 

"Dr. Watson, do sit down." The four of them sat awkwardly, and Sherlock looked up to his older brother with a face that was a mixture of humiliation and contempt. He was feeling more and more like an auctioned statue, or painting, every pair of eyes in the room watched him intently, appraisingly. 

"Sherlock," Greg prompted, pointing to the tea that was set before them. Sherlock was flustered, the entire ceremony of the second tea was not information he deemed valuable to keep, and now he had no ideas how to go about this. Was he supposed serve them? Was he supposed to ask someone else to? 

"I can do it, love, no need to worry," John said sweetly, quickly taking the tea pot in his hands, strong, callused hands that looked rather in-congruent with the fine china, pouring out two cups of tea. "how do you take it?" 

"t-two sugars, sir," Sherlock softly spoke, eyes still downcast, watching the deep amber liquid with false fascination. Why only two? There were four of them.

"I think Greg and I ought to take our leave, we'll be back in a bit," Greg and Mycroft's hands clasped together as they stood, leaving arm and arm, Greg peeking over his shoulder shyly to catch one last look before tucking his head onto Mycroft's shoulder as they exited the drawing room. 

"Are you feeling better, darling?" 

"Sorry?" Sherlock looked over his tea, eyes questioning and sweet.

"You seemed a bit sick after last time," John smiled, stormy blue eyes glowing with something that sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. 

"Oh, yes, i'm alright." Sherlock bit his lip, swallowing nervously. "Sorry I ran off, I- I don't, do this sort of thing."

"Gave me a bit of a fright, love, I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you," John reached over, that same bloody hand, warm and soft but strong and steady found it's place on Sherlock's knee. 

"Stop! stop this," Sherlock set his tea down with a clatter, and John eased his hand away, brows furrowed in concern. "Why are you doing this?!"

"Darling, I don't take your meaning, why am I doing what exactly?"

"Why are you acting like you care about me? Why are you having a laugh with me?"

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm not acting, and I'm sure as hell not laughing," John's fingers traced across Sherlock's cheekbone, the tiny little hairs on the back of his neck standing at full attention, a thousand little tremors shaking through his body. "I want to marry you, love, be your husband, your alpha, keep you safe."

"Oh, yes, poor omega Sherlock, can't take care of himself. I can assure you, _Alpha_ , that I am no meek creature in need of gallant defense. There are a thousand omegas looking for that in London, take your pick."

"Sherlock..." 

"No! Don't talk down to me, patronize me, I can't stand it. It's only adding insult to injury."

"Slow down, my dear boy, nobody's forcing you into this," John said slowly, as unpatronizing as he could manage, patting Sherlock's knee once more. "I'm merely asking- offering, protection, support. Love, Sherlock. I love you."

"I'm sorry, but you cannot sit here and say that I am not being forced into this, because I am. You know what happens here, you know the laws. And don't say that you love me when you only love my body- because I assure you, it's not worth the effort." 

"I'll admit, you are beautiful, Sherlock, no matter if you can see it or not, but that's not why I want you." John cleared his throat, eyes full and deep as the ocean, lapping at the shore, "I chose you because I think you're brilliant, your mind and your heart, you see so much more than the rest of us, and you _feel_ things," John paused, "I'm quite smitten with _you_."

There was a silence, only the ticking of the clock between them. 

"I don't want to be married, sir," Sherlock said softly, dolefully, "I don't want children either."

"Oh, darling, I don't think we need think about children just yet," John chuckled, sipping his tea.

"Don't we? Isn't that what you're purchasing? The rare male omega and his fabled fertility. Have you and Mycroft discussed breeding positions yet? Must be sure to have as many alphas as possible, right? King and Country and all that."

"Sherlock, pups are a blessing, your fertility is a blessing, and I have not _purchased_ anyone. Your Alpha Patronus has offered me your hand, but I will not accept it if you do not want me, Sherlock. I can offer you my love, protection, from all of it- from the terribly backwards notion that omegas can only keep house and breed pups. If you'll have me, Sherlock, I will love you, respect you, cherish and spoil you the way omegas should be spoiled. Children would be something far down the line, love, for now it's only us that I am interested in. I have 6 months left of my dispensation leave, but if you need more time to decide, I can wait,"

"6 months," Sherlock whispered, eyes glowing a sweet blue sadness. 

"Yes, love, then it's back to India, or wherever I'm sent, but I have a house, in Westminster, and a housekeeper who would look after you when I'm away."

"I-" Sherlock paused, a knot of something nervous and mournful in his throat, "I need to think," John smiled, wide and warm and glowing, filling Sherlock with light, brushing his thumb across his knee once more, squeezing a bit before returning to his cup and saucer. 

"That's all I ask, darling, think it over."

As if he had a choice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed this chapter! please tell me what you think my loves <3


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft had hit him. Slapped him across the face. It didn't hurt so bad, but the humiliation left him wobbly and ashamed. Mycroft hadn't ever, hit him, like that before- like a disobedient child. 

"But he said, he said if I didn't want to marry him-" Sherlock sniffled, lying on beneath his raging Alpha brother, whose pheromones were strong enough to knock him to the floor. 

"He shouldn't have said it, Sherlock. I've made the arrangements. It's settled. You _will_ marry him." Mycroft growled, leaning on his umbrella with a villainous smirk. 

"If I tell him no, he'll leave Mycroft! He values _my_ opinion in my own life, unlike you!" Mycroft snarled, holding the handle of his umbrella with such force, it was liable to snap. 

"If you do that, I will sell you to any one of the countless suitors whom I have denied. Pretty penny for a thing like you, I say." Mycroft growled, kneeling and grabbing Sherlock by the ear, "And I doubt any of them will care in the slightest about you."

"I. hate. you." Sherlock whispered, eyes fiery and teeth grit. 

"Your feelings for me are trivial, _little_ brother," Mycroft smiled, "Now go to bed."

"You can't order me, Mycroft!" Sherlock spat, sitting up on his elbows and glaring at his brother with furrowed brows.

"I most certainly can. Now, go. to. bed."

* * *

_1 March 1939_

_Captain Watson,_

_I accept._

_S.H._

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you up yet?" Sherlock was silent, pen still hovering over the paper, hand shaking in the slightest. Greg knocked on the door, sighing, "Alright, well, I'm off to the grindstone, I'll be home early tonight," Sherlock swallowed as his footfalls echoed down the corridor. His eyes flickered to the window, standing in his dressing gown and watching as his brother in law walked down the pavement. The curtains squeaked along their rod as he pulled them closed, rustling the dark velvet fabric, ensuring nobody could see in, before dragging the chair of his desk along the floor and securing the back beneath the knob. He wasn't allowed to have locks on the doors anymore, but it would do. 

Sherlock flopped onto his stomach and crawled under his four post bed, fiddling with the floor board until it came loose, putting it aside and pulling forth the old hat box by the handle into the light. A glass syringe, some old science books of Mycroft's that would've been deemed inappropriate reading material and a certain blue envelope with _Sherlock_ scrawled in fountain pen. His fingers shook has he grasped it, pulling it close and breathing in that warm, musky, gunpowder smell that sent his stomach aflutter. _John._ His John. The thought sent a shiver down his back, adjusting his legs to account for the arousal and excitement of his alpha's scent. 

_His_ Alpha? Fuck! Fucking hell, what was he thinking? He sounded like some pathetic _little_ omega, and he would not be that. Never. The card fell from his fingers back into the box, and he stood, knees weak, falling forward, grasping a post of his bed to stay vertical in a haze of dizzying pheromones. Tears blurred in his eyes- the rushes of chemical emotion leaving him a trembling mess. 

What was wrong with him? Giving into his baser natures, a meek, shivering little creature with no power over his own bloody instincts. Was that who he was now? 

* * *

_5 March 1939_

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I'm not one for letter writing, as you've probably deduced by now, and I cannot hope to express how happy you have made me, but I thought a longer message was in order (at least longer than yours). I really do love you, Sherlock, you're the most brilliant and kind person I have ever met. To know that soon you will be mine, fills me with a strength and a joy I have never known._

_I've had a chat with your brother, and it seems he's not been doing a good enough job caring for you. A brilliant boy like you ought to be at Harrow, or Eton, or at least any sort of school. I've made some calls and enrolled you in a few courses at an omega college. Chemistry and Home Economics. Something for you and something to appease your brother. No offense, but I think he's rather an idiot._

_I miss you dearly, my love, and we must have a photograph taken of you, so I'll have something to dream of when I'm away._

_Yours,_

_J.H.W._

Sherlock swallowed nervously, fixing his hair a bit, stomach churning as he held close the letter, signed by Mycroft and John, that said he was allowed to be here, standing in a musty wooden building in Lower Clapton, queued along with a dozen omega women, chattering amongst themselves. Most of them were complaining about the course, about their alphas who forced them to take it so they'd be better mothers, help with kiddies with their schoolwork. Sherlock was jittery, his whole body glowing with excitement. 

"Next!" The beta woman called, and Sherlock jumped, scurrying to the front and providing his paperwork. She looked at him from beneath some wire rim spectacles, up and down and then smirking before looking over his letter. "No bondmate?"

"No, I-" Sherlock paused, "I'm engaged."

"Oh good. Had me worried for a moment, go on then, love, it's right through there," She pointed to a set of double doors and Sherlock bit his lip, trying his hardest not to be himself. How he wanted to give that woman a real tongue lashing, how her beta husband was cheating with at least three omegas, two male, if the scent of heat was anything to be going on. He turned and pushed open the door, revealing three benches, glass beakers and flasks, burners, goggles, bottles labeled with all sorts of chemical names along shelves to the left, a periodic table to the right. Sherlock already had memorized it, there was a picture of each element in Mycroft's old book, which he knew by heart. 

The instructor was an old alpha, with a thick gray beard and a dusty pink nose. He looked like the last thing he wanted to do was teach omegas. Going by the clear signs of alcoholism, and his distaste for his profession, he clearly used to be a real professor, but certain chemical reactions cannot be denied. 

"Alright, all of you, sit down. Let's get this over with, for all our sakes. I know you're here to learn basics, so that's where we'll begin, and where we'll end. If you need it, there are books over there, take 'em and bring 'em back. But I doubt you will, as this course is only elementary chemistry."

Sherlock raised his hand. A dozen eyes turned.

"Hmf, what is it?"

"Is there a second course, for the intermediate chemistry?"

"What would you want take that for?"

Sherlock bit his lip. 

"Because I want to?"

"I'd have you mind what I say, lad, now go," The man pointed to the door, "come back when you've come off your high horse, _princess_ , or you'll be getting a smack," The girls giggled, all but one, a mousy brunette in the corner, and Sherlock's skin flushed crimson, feeling horribly patronized, pushing open the door and leaving. 

_11 March 1939_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_How are your courses going, my love? I hope you're not quite bored, I know how bright you are. Anyways, your brother says that a bit of a party is in line, to announce the engagement. Is that alright with you? I know how much you loathe those stuffy affairs, and I'd hate for you to be anxious. Please invite loads of your friends, liven the night up a bit._

_Yours,_

_J.H.W._

_14 March 1939_

_Captain Watson,_

_The courses are alright. I'm very grateful of the opportunity. I don't have anyone to invite, I'm sorry._

_S.H._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *muah* thank you for your support, there's more on the way!


	13. Chapter 13

30 March 1939

Sherlock shuddered, back pressed to the wall of the closet, curling tighter in on himself at the roar of laughter and clinking glasses. There was a blast of a trombone, the phonograph blaring and Sherlock whimpered. He hated being the shy, stereotypical omega who couldn't handle lights and noises, but here he was, hiding in the linen cupboard at his own engagement party. He held his knees close to his chest, tucking his nose between his knees and sniffling back the tears in his eyes. Engaged? How silly a word for purchased, sentenced more like. Wouldn't be long now, till he was mounted, raped. But was it rape? When his body wouldn't let him say no? 

Did he want to say no?

He gasped, clamping a hand over his mouth, trying to calm his hitched breathing. There were footsteps in the hall, the light at the bottom of the door flickering. There was a knock, Sherlock only curling further in on himself. The knob turned and Sherlock desperately reached out to keep it closed. There was a struggle, the hand on the other end quite stronger. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you in there?" Mycroft! Dear God no. No no no no.

"Go away Mycroft!" Sherlock tried to hiss, but he came out more like a begging whisper. 

"Get out of the linen closet. Now." Sherlock shook his head violently, warm curls flouncing about in the dark of the cupboard. 

"Jawn!" Sherlock breathed, "I-I want Jawn." The hand on the other side immediately let go, as if by magnetic repulsion. 

"Alright, I'll send him right over," Mycroft smirked, and Sherlock could hear the dripping of sarcasm and contempt. Sherlock was pathetic, it didn't matter what Mycroft thought anymore. Soon he was alone again, the sounds of partying continuing to thump through the floorboards. His mouth was completely dry, his tongue fat and numb. His omega was begging him to stay in the closet, stay safe, too many smells, too many people. He whimpered and ducked his head once more, eyes brimming with tears. Fuck this! Fuck his bloody stupid instincts and his bloody stupid gender. Whimpering and whining in the hall closet begging for his alpha? What a pathetic load of rubbish he was. Just a toy to be used and thrown away. 

"Sherlock?" There was another knock on the door, a very concerned John on the other side. "Sherlock let me in." It wasn't exactly an order, but his omega instantly obeyed, letting go of the knob and crawling into the back corner, nose tucked into the wall, wiping his tears on the sleeves of his silky shirt.The door creaked open, and soon a warm, consoling smell, gunpowder and soft heather, filled his lungs, leaving him dizzy, tears budding up again in sheer relief. Sherlock looked up nervously to the alpha that stood in the hall in his uniform, his eyes fearful and wide.

"Oh, Sherlock, what's the matter darling?" John soothed, kneeling down in front of the trembling sixteen year old. Sherlock could claim it was the scent. Yes, it was that bloody alpha scent that made him leap into John's arms, tuck his nose into his neck. But, that wasn't exactly true, was it?

"I'm so sorry, I'm being so childish," Sherlock mumbled as he slackened into John's warmth, strong arms wrapped around his middle, holding them close, kneeling on the floor of the downstairs linen closet. 

"Nothing to be sorry for," John smiled, breathing in deep gulps of the omega's tantalizingly lovely smell, honey and mint, with hints of sweet ripe blackberries. Sherlock hiccuped, flushing bright red, feeling quite silly being held like this. John's strong, rough hands were delicately carding through Sherlock's hair. "I'm here now, aren't I?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, his whole body glowing. His alpha was so strong, so good, so kind. He scolded himself for being so docile and shoved John back, crawling off his lap and into the hall, bleary cheeks glowing a soft pink.

"Stop, just stop this. Don't touch me, no more than necessary, I don't want to touch you." Sherlock snapped, the lie sinking deep in his chest. 

_but I do want him to hold me, he's safe! I'll be safe there!_

"Sherlock..." John stood, reaching and taking the back of Sherlock's nape into his hand, fingers brushing across his skin, goose flesh rising all across his body. Their faces were so close, and Sherlock writhed, turning his chin away, quite trapped. John's eyes were saucers, deep and blue and glowing with concern. "I don't want you to hate me."

"I don't hate you." Sherlock bit his lip, looking down. "I hate me." John's eyebrows scrunched together and he looked at Sherlock with concern. "No! Don't say anything, because you can't possibly understand, _alpha."_ Sherlock seethed, eyes clamped shut. 

"Sherlock, none of that matters! Omega, Alpha, it's not important."

"How can you say that? When my body is so disgusting, when I can't vote or drive or go anywhere without Mycroft's permission. If I weren't like this, I could be someone. But I'm no one, and I'll never be anyone and I don't matter."

"No Sherlock. Do _not_ talk like this, of course you matter. You matter," John paused, anger bubbling in his chest, trying to cool himself off as to not frighten his omega, "you matter a great deal, Sherlock. Things are changing, hell, they should've changed a hundred years ago. Trust me, love, please trust me," 

Sherlock's eyes widened, breath beginning to return to normal, pale blue eyes flickering over John. He looked, so strong, so safe. Maybe...maybe he could trust him? 

"Now, we only have to talk to them for a moment, then we can send them all home, I promise," John whispered, rubbing circles on Sherlock's back. Sherlock nodded and mumbled, allowing John's fingers to interlace with his own and lead him down the hall, hand resting at the small of his back, thumb brushing a calming circle as they dodged party guests and amused expressions. Greg saw them from across the sitting room and shouted at everyone to be quiet. The phonograph skidded off and a dozen or so pairs of dress shoes turned on their heels to look at that couple that stood in the door way. 

John cleared his throat, and Sherlock only looked down, frozen solid under their sharp eyes. He rubbed a spot on the floor with his shoe, it really was quite shiny. 

"Thank you all for coming, Sherlock and I are very happy you all could celebrate with us," A few eyebrows scrunched at "us". 

"Aw come on, scent him, John!" Someone cried, and the room erupted in agreement and laughter. Sherlock swallowed nervously, trembling slightly. John looked him in the eyes, quite seriously, eyes glowing warm and dangerous, holding tight to Sherlock's shoulders before leaning in and marking him, rubbing his own scent glands across Sherlock's the slight stubble of the alpha's chin scratching at Sherlock's delicate skin as their scents mixed. John breathed in a deep lungful of Sherlock, sweet and delicious and innocent, breathing out his own, musky and dark and powerful. He lapped his tongue softly at the crook of his neck and Sherlock felt faint. 

The crowd cheered with a few lewd whistles, but Sherlock couldn't hear a thing- the world had faded away from him, all that remained was _John_. Strong and kind and brave and _Jawn._ Their eyes met, and John glowed with pride. Sherlock was marked, claimed, as _his._ It would only last for a few weeks until the wedding, but for now, Sherlock smelled delightfully like him. 

"Mine," John growled, if only by instinct, before pressing his lips to Sherlock's, the mop of chocolatey curls tucked into his elbow, dipping Sherlock back. The crowd went nuts, and Greg hushed them back, blushing a bit himself. 

Sherlock eyes only flickered in abject fascination as John kissed him, the world in black and white, as if he'd been transported into a film. 

* * *

"I think we ought to postpone the date, John," Mycroft said, holding his cigar away from himself as if it was a snake. "I have a feeling you'll be called up sooner than you think."

"Why's that?" John's brows furrowed, sipping his brandy. The party was over, Sherlock and Gregory had since gone up to bed, and the alphas were still smoking.

"The cabinet office is going to pledge our support of Poland tomorrow, if Germany should attempt their sovereignty, we will be at war." Mycroft stated, bringing his cigar to his lips and pulling in a puff, coughing a bit through his nose. 

"Are you saying we're going to war, Mycroft?"

"Not exactly." The ginger man sighed.

"Right," John paused, glass still mid-air, "Well, I'd rather we settled things sooner, rather than later."

"You've no need to worry. Your claim is secure, he'll be alright with me and Gregory."

"How can I go to fight, knowing he's here, unbonded?" John smirked sadly.

"King and Country, John, you'll find a way," Mycroft leered distastefully. 

"No, I won't. I'm going to marry Sherlock, I don't need a big ceremony, all I need is your signature and a bishop to watch."

Mycroft sighed, looking out across the dining room, "He may need to go to Sherinford, should things escalate, London is a bit of a target."

"If he needs to go north, he can go to my sisters, in Scotland"

"John, really, what is the rush?"

John smirked, slyly, like the cat that got the cream, looking down at his brandy and swirling it round it's glass. Mycroft almost spit, but he stopped himself and let out what was the Mycroft equivalent of a chuckle.

"Oh, I see."

The alphas shared a smile, before John stood, buttoning his jacket and putting his cigar out. He held out his hand and they shook curtly, "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

"Really, Mycroft, please,"

"Ta, Mycroft," 

"Goodnight, John."

* * *

"John!" The alpha paused and turned as he approached the door, looking up the enormous staircase to see a pair of pale legs dangling out over the landing. Sherlock leaned forward with conspiring look, holding tight to the balusters and swinging his feet in the air. He looked so boyish in his pinstripe pyjama top and shorts, his hair a curly floof upon his head. John smiled and turned, looking around the hallway before climbing the staircase, slowly, quietly. Sherlock untangled himself from the railing and stood, teeny frame even smaller as he crossed his legs shyly. He blushed, eyes twinkling, and tiptoed across the hallway to John, leaning up on his tiptoes and examining him. 

"Goodnight, John," He whispered before reaching up and kissing his solider on the lips, shy and innocent and so unsure. He felt dangerous, kissing an alpha in the hall _upstairs_ , and the thrill sent fire through his veins. John growled and deepened the kiss, hands resting on Sherlock's hips. John pulled away, tucking his hands in his pockets and grinning.

"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I know Sherlock has been very resistant to John thus far, but I wanted to emphasize that his resistance and "alpha tendencies" are for show and used a way of maintaining dignity and humanity in a very inhumane and undignified societal role *kisses for all of u*


	14. Chapter 14

_His Lordship, Alpha Sir. Mycroft Holmes, the seventeenth Earl of Sherinford, cordially invites you to the wedding of his brother, omega Sherlock Holmes, to Alpha Capt. John H. Watson of the 5th Northumberland_ _Fusiliers_

_Wednesday_ _10 May 1939_

 _RSVP at earliest_ _convenience_

25 April 1939

"Sherlock!" With one hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, Mycroft shouted up the staircase, "Sherlock it's for you!"

"I'm busy!" Sherlock called, lying on his tummy, nose burrowed deep into one of his stolen books. 

"It's Dr. Watson," Sherlock leapt to his feet, heart racing, cheeks flushing, before stopping. He paused, standing on his tip toes, counting to 1-2-3-4-5-oh screw it! He pushed open his door and came down the corridor, leaning over the rail and feigning indifference. 

"What does he want?" Sherlock scowled.

"I imagine he wants to speak to you,"

"Brilliant deduction, Mycroft, really," Sherlock grumbled, gracing down the staircase before snatching the offered telephone away and glaring. Mycroft huffed at his challenge but turned and left anyway. Greg was leaning with his arms crossed against a column in the hall, grinning immensely smugly. His eyes sparkled when he met Mycroft's, and the British Government's ears flared pink.

"Young love, not much to be done I s'pose." Greg smirked, approaching his husband before wrapping his arms round his shoulders, pulling him in for a sloppy and well-practiced kiss.

"Shoo! I'm trying to use the phone, please stop consummating in the hallway." Sherlock growled, turning and leaning into the phone. 

"You heard the boy, move along," Mycroft grinned, and Greg chuckled before following him into his study for a proper snog. He hopped up on that big oak desk and opened his legs wide, leaving a perfect spot for the alpha. Mycroft took his invitation and pressed their mouths together, holding Gregory tight by the shoulders and claiming his lips. 

"My," Greg mumbled, "Why are you only like this with me?"

"I thought you liked your alphas loyal, Lieutenant," 

"No, 'course I bloody well do," Greg pressed a chaste kiss to his lips and took his hands in his, rubbing circles over his tense knuckles, "I only meant, you're so rough with Sherlock, he's just a kid you know? I remember being a bit sulky when I was his age,"

"Gregory, it's complicated," Mycroft let go of his hands and tucked them into his pockets. 

"Oh, now see, you're a whole different person about him," Greg's eyes glowed with sadness. "I know that you love him, but I don't think he does,"

"That's not something I like to say, you know this, and besides, what does it matter? Sherlock is not like you and me, he's- he needs someone to keep him in line, they all do."

"Omegas, you mean?" Gregory snapped, eyebrows hunched. 

"Yes, I don't understand your problem!" Mycroft cried incredulously, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

"My, I love you, but you can't seriously think that. He's _Sherlock_ , our Sherlock." 

"Sherlock is none of your concern."

"He's my brother-in-law, and I love him. You may be the most conservative man I know, but he's a human being, My, he can only take so much from you."

"He'll be the Captain's problem soon enough," Mycroft mumbled, stepping around Greg and slouching into his ginormous leather chair. "Now please go, I have some important work to see to," The detective glared, mouth agape in shock, before huffing and slipping down off the desk, slamming the door of the study behind him. 

Mycroft sighed, far too distracted to think about the new defense budget's approval. What was it about Sherlock that made him such a monster? 

* * *

"How are you, love?" John smiled, fondly looking at the newly framed photograph of Sherlock- he'd made quite a stern face for his picture, but he was beautiful even in black and white. 

"m'alright" Sherlock mumbled, rubbing a spot on the floor with his shoe, arms crossed, cheeks flaring crimson. "How are you?"

"Horrible." Sherlock gasped, but John chuckled, "You've ruined me. I can barely sleep a wink thinking about you." Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and swallowed nervously, tucking his hair behind his ears. 

"I don't sleep with much regularity so I couldn't make a fair analysis," Sherlock mumbled and John laughed, warm and low and deep and it sent Sherlock's heart into a dizzying race. 

"You need to sleep. Did you get anything in the post?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I sent you something, I thought it would be there by now," Sherlock's eyes widened and he grabbed the base of the phone in one hand, tucking the handle under his chin and yanking the cord attached to the wall, dragging the phone into the corridor and looking by the door. 

"Oh, there is something, Mycroft didn't say," Sherlock approached the large brown parcel, with no postage or stamps to be seen, just his name and address on a white card on top. 

"Well go on then," Sherlock's tongue went numb and his stomach felt tight and fuzzy and tumbly and so many other horrid things as he carefully tore open the paper, the box smelling so wonderfully of John. He gasped, pulling off the lid and revealing the contents.

"The man who I bought it from said it was a good one, but if he's wrong we can get a different one," Sherlock pulled the steel microscope out and examined it- it probably cost a fortune. Inside was a set of lenses and slides, as well as some things to clean it with. 

"It's- I-" Sherlock's words fizzled away as he admired it, fingers grazing over the metal. Tears welled in his eyes, hot and scratching at the back of his throat, a sob rising in his chest. "It's perfect, I've never- no one's ever- it's _perfect_."

"I'm glad you like it, love,"

"Th-thank you, sir," 

"Oh, Sherlock, please don't call me that,"

"But, I thought I was supposed-"

"Love, please just call me John." Sherlock bit his lip. He ran a hand through his hair and sat back on his heels, the microscope sitting at his feet. _Bought off._ He closed his eyes and held the phone tight in his fist. 

"Thank you, Jawn, it's- I love it, Jawn,"

"Lovely," John smiled, "so tell me about your courses, love," Sherlock swallowed, shuffling about so he was leaning against the wall, tapping the base of the microscope with his toe. 

"Well, I accidentally broke the sewing machine. It wasn't my fault, I promise! It runs away from you!" Sherlock shook his head, shaking away the hateful experience, "It's so frustrating, I guess I thought these, house things were _simple_ , that I was too good for them but now I just feel like an idiot." Sherlock bit his cheek. He hadn't meant to say all of that. Christ, how pathetic was he?

"You're not an idiot, Sherlock, not in the slightest, and there's no reason to worry, you'll have Mrs. H once you've moved in," 

"Moved in?" Sherlock's cheeks flared pink as he brought his knees close to his chest, balancing the base of the phone between his legs.

"To Baker street, to my house," John said softly, excitedly, "Oh, I meant to tell you, I've received a letter from a certain 'Uncle Rudy', whomever that is, he's offered us his house for honeymoon, in France," John paused, "but I'm not sure about taking you over there, not these days," 

"France? I want to go, please John, I've never been, I don't care about stupid politics, please can't we go?" Sherlock sounded so young, hell he was _so_ young- with those cheekbones and his posh airs John sometimes forgot that he was only sixteen.

"You really ought to care, but alright, we'll go," John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But I retain the right to change my mind any step of the way- the continent is a bloody mess at the moment, I won't let you anywhere where it isn't safe." Sherlock huffed, biting down on his lip and sighing. "Don't pout love, I can't help it,"

Sherlock scrunched his nose at his own predictability before the footfalls of an angry Mycroft could be heard down the corridor, and Sherlock hunched back in a vain attempt to not be seen. 

"Sherlock, off the phone, it's time for bed," 

"I'm not tired, Mycroft!" Sherlock hissed, covering the mouthpiece of the phone, but Mycroft only raised his eyebrows and outstretched his hand. "I have to go, John, goodbye." Sherlock hung up, tossing the phone back into it's cradle, and shoving the whole thing towards Mycroft. 

"John, is it?"Mycroft leered, biting his cheek and depositing the phone back on it's table.

"Shut up Mycroft." Sherlock grumbled. 

"It wouldn't do you harm to _try_ and be respectful to your future husband," Sherlock puffed out his lip and properly sulked, looking Mycroft up and down before giving him a smirk.

"You and Lestrade have a domestic?" Sherlock smiled, and Mycroft grimaced, reaching to grab Sherlock by the ear before he dodged away slyly and raced up the stairs, "Night night, brother dear,"

Mycroft was left to the empty hallway, knuckles white as he gripped his umbrella's handle- feeling just a tiny sliver of what might have been regret, before shaking it off and turning back to his study. Long night's work would do him good- he could really get lost in it, and there was so much to be done these days. 

Best not think about Sherlock at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ever so sorry this chapter is so short, I haven't slept a wink last night writing it and now the sun is up and I must go to bed. I promise promise promise the next chapter will be big!! *cough* wedding *cough* 
> 
> I love all of you so very much <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tunes!   
> "Maybe" by the Ink Spots

9 May 1939

Sherlock hadn't slept. He sat upright in his bed, sheets and duvet wrapped around him like a cocoon, knees drawn tight against his chest. Plumes of dust were set alight by sunlight that peeked through the curtains, his curls glowing like a halo around his face. He looked to the clock on his bedside table. 6:44. He closed his eyes and drew into a still tighter ball. Last day of freedom, he supposed. Only one day until...

No. He wouldn't think about it, he wouldn't let it hurt him in advance. Ironically, he was due for heat in a few days, and the idea made him want to turn inside out. Married people, they _shared_ heats- "claim bond knot breed", right? His books were frightfully unenlightening as to the specifics- only chirping out little epigrams about "natural instincts" and "loving consummation of bonding". Nothing about what exactly he need expect- would John expect him to know what to do? Would John tie him down and take him? It would probably be painful, he'd never even used those grotesque "heat relieving" devices Mycroft had bought him. And the knot? Estimating from the diagram, it's width was about 15-20 centimetres inflated. How was that going to fit?! There'd probably be blood, and tearing, and he already had scars there...

Sherlock shuddered and wrapped his duvet around himself tighter, feeling so small and so alone. He was brave. He'd find a way. He'd block it out, he'd get into his mind palace and let John have whatever he wanted, wait until he was finished to come back out. Or he could kill himself before he had the chance.

There was a knock on the door.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?" 

" _Go away_ , Mycroft!" He cried, voice shaky and rough.There was a pause, and the hand on the doorknob paused. 

"I want to speak with you, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was, wrong, all wrong. Soft and weak and almost pleading. Pleading with _Sherlock_? 

"I said _go away!"_ Sherlock grumbled, hiding his head under the covers. The door creaked open anyways, and his brother stepped across the room, not even mentioning the mess of papers and the microscope which sat proudly on his desk. The alpha paused, admiring the little tuft of midnight curls that poked out from beneath the covers, before sitting on the side of the bed, reaching out to pet it, but stopping himself and placing his hand on his thigh.

"I imagine you're quite nervous," Mycroft offered, eyes glued to the wall. Sherlock flipped back the blankets and poked his eyes up to the surface, flickering over Mycroft with a razor sharp gaze. "You don't need to be."

"Easy for you to say. You're not being sold tomorrow." Mycroft swallowed, hands clenching into fists. He opened his mouth to speak, but swallowed whatever it was he had intended to say, instead resting a hand on his brother's blanketed knee, still not looking at him. 

"Sherlock...I-" The words froze on his tongue, two more easy words, he just had to spit it out. Spit it out, Mycroft! But his English sensibilities caught up in time, and he only gave Sherlock a pat, the gangly omega squirming away from his touch, further into his cave. "If anything, should ever, happen to John, I will take care of you- Gregory and I will always be here for you. No matter what happens." 

_I love you, more than anything, and I've only ever wanted the best for you._

Sherlock's brows furrowed and he popped back out to look up at his brother, "What do you mean, something happening to John?"

"We are poised to go to war, Sherlock, and we will. I say we have another six months at the most. And I'm never wrong."

"What's that got to do with John?" Sherlock mumbled, crossing his arms.

"Sherlock, don't be an idiot. We'll all have to do our share- and for you, that will be accepting that John very well may die."

"Why're you telling me this?" Sherlock glared. 

"If he dies, you will be significantly physically at risk as his bond mate- but you will be safe with us." Sherlock bit his lip, the snappy remark he wanted to make dying somewhere in his chest at the sight of his brother- desperately trying to tell Sherlock something, but not saying it. "I know you very well despise me, Sherlock, I've accepted that, and I'm sorry."

 _I'm sorry that I hurt you_. _I'm sorry I ignored you. I was so afraid to mess it up, to let you down, please forgive me, Sherlock._

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Right. Well. Gregory's liable to be awake soon, he's taken his day off to be with you. Try to be nice." Mycroft stood, wiping the wrinkles from his trousers and retrieving his umbrella from the foot of the bed. He turned the doorknob and made to leave.

"Wait, Mycroft," Sherlock breathed, "did you say this, because Lestrade told you to?" The older alpha paused, breath caught in his throat. He contemplated telling the truth, but changed his mind.

_I meant what I said, Sherlock, I love you._

"Yes, I suppose I did. Silly thing to say. Get dressed." 

* * *

John Watson looked ridiculous. 

"Harry, I look ridiculous, I'm not wearing this." He grumbled, looking at the floor length mirror before looking down at his feet- socks and garter ribbons and all. He glanced back up at mirror, and the wretched blue tartan garment that went to his knees. 

"Hey. If I had to, you have to." His sister laughed, pouring the last drops of whiskey down her throat before throwing her head back in the leather armchair. "Tradition is tradition."

"You looked ridiculous too," He raised his eyebrows, "Harry it's ten in the morning, why are you drinking?"

"Oh, you would if you were married to her. Jesus Christ, she's horrible. I don't see why you're doing this, it's _so_ much better being single." John glared, turning and crossing his arms. 

"Yeah, Clara's the one who's horrible. Tell that to the bruises on her face. Fell down the stairs again, right?" John snarled, adjusting his tie for the tenth time. Harry growled in response, the two alpha's scents filling the room with conflict. 

"Why do you think she needs discipline? Really, you sound like a _beta._ You always were so weak and soft,"

"Weakness is hurting your wife because you're drunk, Harry," John snarled, but tried to retain his cool and control his alpha. True strength, being a real man, was being the one in control of his alpha, not his alpha controlling him. That's what mum had always said, after dad had gone on another "business trip" with his whore.

"Fuck off." Harry groaned, her anger soothing at the lack of competing alpha scent. "You're right. You do look ridiculous."

"Oh, ta, Harry," John snapped, removing his kit and changing back into trousers. "Oh, I'm bringing Greg along tonight, is that a problem?" He added, zipping himself up with a little jump before sitting to lace up his oxfords.

"Who says I'm going?' Harry snapped, already refilling her glass. John grumbled.

"For Christ's sake- you're the best man, Harry, it's kind of your job to come to the stag night." John cried exasperatedly. 

"Who said I was your best man?" Harry growled. John grit his teeth and shook his head. 

"Sod this, fine. Don't come. And don't come tomorrow either. Tell Clara she is still definitely invited,"

* * *

"Good morning, sunshine," Greg beamed as Sherlock came into the dining room, pulling his jumper over his head, inky curls plopping out the top. He shook out his shoulders and fluffed his hair, slouching into his chair, leaning his chin on his arms, looking intently at the empty tea cup in front of his eyes. "Sleep alright?"

"Fine." Sherlock mumbled, and Greg seemed satisfied with the fiction, folding his newspaper in half and sipping his coffee. 

"Thought we might pack up your stuff today, that way it's already at John's when you guys come home from holiday," Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows at that and flopped his head the other direction, knees tucked up under his armpits. Greg only smiled and rubbed a hand across his shoulders. "Don't get too excited," Sherlock smirked and sat up a bit. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, Greg burrowed in his paper, Sherlock mindlessly looking out the window, the bustle of London was so mindnumbing and yet still fascinating. Everyone fit, everyone had somewhere to go, and they all seemed bloody pleased with themselves. As if every mother with a pram or businessman with his briefcase mocked him with their pleasant expressions. 

He didn't blame them.

"Sherlock? Did you hear me?" Greg tapped his shoulder.

"Hm?"

"I said, you don't have to be scared,"

"M'not,"

"He's a good man, Sherlock, he'd never hurt you."

"Mm."

Greg sighed, scrubbing his face with his palms and staring into the shiny metal teapot. 29 year-olds didn't have grey hair, and yet he was already starting to sprinkle with salt on the tips by ears. Bloody hell, he looked downright _ancient._

"If-" Sherlock started, but bit his tongue, swallowing the syllables and looking over at Greg, "If he's not...would you, help me?"

"What do you mean, sunshine?"

"I only meant, if, something should go wrong, and he-" Sherlock bit his lip to stop it from quivering. His arms felt chilly, goose flesh all up his skin, his stomach clenched in a knot. 

"hurts you?"

"Yeah,"

"Well of course I'd help you, Sherlock," Greg paused, "don't be silly."

"But...with Esther you..."

"Sherlock, look at me," a pair of shimmering grey eyes flicked up, full and round and afraid, "I will always help you." 

Sherlock smiled, a teeny little sad smile, before Greg set his paper down and looked at his watch. 

"Right then, let's get to it," 

* * *

Sherlock rest his head on his window ledge, sitting at his desk, an experiment with some yeast he found in the icebox staring up innocently at him, but he couldn't think. Rain pelted the foggy panes of glass, and the radiator hummed dutifully heating his bedroom. He brushed away a tear that threatened to fall. And another. They were multiplying faster then he could catch them, and eventually he hung his head, folding in on himself in his swivel chair, holding his feet in his hands, curls running over his knees like little rivulets of chocolate. 

Twap!

He looked up, shaking his hair out and turning his head around, before he could realize the sound was coming from the other window-

Twap!

He dropped to the floor, crawling along the wall before he reached the second window, peeking over into the dark alley behind the house were the bins were. A certain army captain stood, a handful of pebbles in one hand, left arm pulled back before he let go and-

Twap!

Sherlock hurriedly pushed open the latch, the window swinging open, before poking his head up.

"John, why are you covering your eyes?"

"It's bad luck for me to see you!" 

"You believe that rubbish?!" Sherlock couldn't help the smile that crept into the corners of his mouth, his fingers twiddling nervously together. 

"I'm not taking any chances," John smiled, "Come down here and kiss me." 

"I thought it was bad luck!" 

"I'll keep my eyes shut, I promise, kiss me, and _hurry_ , I'm going to be married tomorrow," Sherlock pulled on his dressing gown, quite aware he was only in his pyjamas, heart racing a mile a minute.

"Jawn, you're marrying _me_ ," Sherlock chided, crawling gracefully onto the fire escape, kicking the ladder down and descending hurriedly, quiet as a mouse. 

"I know, Isn't it marvelous," John grinned, eyes still shut, and Sherlock stood awkwardly for a moment, the sweet luring smell of _john_ pulling him closer. Blind hands reached for him, and he immediately fell into his arms, tucking under his chin, enveloped in his warmth, deliriously gulping down deep breaths of _John._ Deep and musky and warm, with just a tad bit of alcohol on his breath. 

"John," Sherlock whispered, eyes cataloging every detail of his darkened skin, the the pale glow of lamplight casting glorious shadows on his tanned and freckles skin, and Sherlock traced a finger down his nose. Sherlock really did adore that nose. John smiled and carded fingers through his delicate, velvet soft hair, thumbs brushing his ears before grasping his by the sides of his cheeks and pressing their lips together. 

It was warm and sweet and sickeningly perfect. Sherlock hummed beneath the alpha's lips, eliciting a deep growl that sent shivers down his entire body, a tingly glow that settled beneath his legs as John's arms traced his back. John pulled Sherlock's plush bottom lip between his teeth, claiming it, claiming his whole mouth. Sherlock was weak in the knees, barely standing, 

John pulled away to catch his breath, eyes still shut. 

"So I'll see you tomorrow then?" He smirked, hand resting on the small of the omega's back.

"I suppose so," Sherlock whispered, leaning his cheek on his shoulder, closing his eyes. His mind was screaming at his body to stop. _Get off of him, go back inside, pack your things and run away. It's a trap, Sherlock!_

John peeked open one eye and looked down at the sweet thing in his arms, silver moonlight shining through Sherlock's ringlets of ebony. The omega's eyelashes fluttered, pressed closed, as John brushed his thumbs along pale marble cheekbones, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

"Get some sleep now, darling, and I'll see you tomorrow, I'll be the one standing at the front."

"Goodnight Jawn,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* is this awful?? I'm in such a slump, I've outlined the next like ten chapters, I promise it all comes together, I promise it makes sense  
> *crumples into a ball*


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended tunes:  
> "So This Is Love" by Irene Woods

10 May 1939

Sherlock was going to puke. He was going to puke, he was going to puke, he was going to-

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Greg asked worriedly, holding a somehow even paler Sherlock by the shoulder. The omega's eyes refocused and he looked up nodding slowly. Greg pat his arm and gave him a smile, pulling a white silk shirt over his shoulders, buttoning it down the front. 

"You look, pale," Offered the dark skinned omega in the corner, who twiddled her fingers nervously, twitching as Greg pat Sherlock. Her skin tone did little to hide the dark bruises that covered half her face. She seemed insecure under Sherlock's gaze so he looked down at his wrist as Greg buttoned his cuff links. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but it snapped shut. 

"He's always pale, Mrs. Watson," Greg chuckled, reaching over to bureau and grabbing something or another. Sherlock looked over to the abused omega with an intense fear that seemed to be seeping through his scent, because both Greg and Clara sniffed the air worriedly. Greg grabbed both his hands and gave him another strong smile, one that Sherlock couldn't help but reciprocate. Greg mouthed, "you're okay," before throwing a silk blue ribbon around his shoulders, buttoning the starched collar which choked a bit at his throat. Sherlock grimaced as Greg tied a ribbon around his neck. 

"Was your wedding like this, Mrs. Watson?" Greg offered, to which she only nodded.

"A- a bit, I wore a dress though, and it was in Scotland, closer to the house," She mumbled, deep brown eyes flickering over to Sherlock, almost as if she was begging him not to say the obvious deductions he was so desperate to inform her of. 

"I don't think we could wrestle Sherlock into a dress without physical injury." Greg smirked, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes in a huff. 

"Thank you, for asking me to do this, I don't get out of Scotland much, even with the pups grown a bit," Clara spoke softly, eyes warm and sweet. She was a gentle soul, and Sherlock could see why she was "the favourite" of John's relatives. 

"It's no problem," Sherlock smiled genuinely, to which Greg gave an approving nod. John had asked that Clara be one of his bridesmaids, and well, Greg didn't really count anyways, and Sherlock didn't have anyone else anyway.

"Right, well, uh- Clara could you help me with this?" Greg swallowed nervously holding that wretched box, itching the back of his neck and stepping away. Sherlock flushed a deep red, oh god no. Not this. No, no no no no.

"Oh, of course!" She nodded furiously, taking the box from Greg and opening the lid, her eyes flickering with- something, something Sherlock couldn't place as she pulled the belt from it's case. Sherlock looked away, it wasn't humanly possible to be blushing as hard he was right now.

"For god's sake, I'm not wearing it!" He cried, crossing his arms and closing his knees together, tears threatening the back of his throat. Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

" _Sherlock_ ,"

"No!" His feet tumbled back, "No I won't do it!"

"Sherlock, either stand here and let Clara put it on you or I'll hold you down." Greg snarled, and Sherlock whimpered, looking up with wide eyes of betrayal. 

"But- I-"

"Sherlock. Now please." Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeves and stepped into it, swallowing thickly and looking at the floor- tracing the ornate fabric with his eyes. Clara clicked the locks in place, buckling the straps and giving his thigh a soft pat, turning the key before stepping away with forlorn eyes. She placed the keys in Greg's palm, and Sherlock snatched his trousers from the back of a chair and slipped them on quickly, glaring daggers at Lestrade

"I- I can help with your hair?" Clara said meekly, giving his wild mess of hair a sideways look, to which Sherlock snorted and fluffed it up even more. "Curls can be tricky," She smiled, and Sherlock returned it. His insides glowed with something he'd almost forgotten. A...friend?

"Sure, yes, of course you can help," Sherlock said quickly, and Greg tucked the keys into his pockets and smiled. Sherlock gave him a glare, and he turned around for a moment and flipped a silver six pence at Sherlock, who caught it in both hands and scowled.

"What the _hell_ am I supposed to do with this?"

* * *

John Watson's heart raced, thumping in his chest like a drum, loud and fast and it thrummed through every vein. He swallowed thickly and grasped the rings out of his sporran, holding them out in his hand to examine. The abbey was abuzz, and John tried not to look anyone in the eyes. He smiled at his housekeeper, who gave him a thumbs up from the first row. He could laugh at how pathetically empty his side of the church was. He looked down the aisle, where Greg was rushing as he strode, smiling wide with hands tucked in his pockets. John smiled, and they shook hands.

"How's the hangover?" Greg smirked, and John coughed and laughed.

"Fucking horrible." He rubbed his temple a bit and sighed.

"Hey! We're in church," Gregory jokingly scolded, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. "But we all know where you snuck off to," 

"Don't tell Mycroft. Anyways, thanks for doing this, mate, so last minute,"

"Hey it's no problem, bit scandalous to have a beta as a best man though,"

"Oh come off it." John smiled and Greg stood nervously next to him, eyes scanning the half full church. "Do I look alright? Jesus, I haven't been this scared since they tried to shoot the Viceroy." John slicked a hand through his hair nervously and Greg chuckled, reaching forward and straightening John's lapels. 

"You look fine, and you know he's in love with you anyways,"

"Is he? I've got this terrible feeling that he isn't,"

"Shut up and start thinking of baby names, you idiot, he _loves_ you." John opened his mouth to counter but the organ began to play, and everyone scrambled into their places. The Vicar smiled, holding his bible tightly and giving John the eyebrows. John swallowed and turned to the doors, his heart seemingly stopped in his chest. His nieces giggled as they spread flowers in their cute fluffy dresses, and his heart tightened. Someday, maybe, him and Sherlock would have children too. Beautiful little him-and-Sherlock's. The thought sent him reeling, so he rialed up his alpha to keep himself from fainting. He stood tall, parade rest. Feet shoulder width apart and hands folded behind his back. Clara came next, looking lovely as usual, with a small bouquet of flowers. She gave John a friendly smile before taking her spot on the other side of the aisle.

The organ's tune changed, and the Vicar gave everyone a little wave, and soon the abbey stood, turning to the door to see the bride. John's throat burned with nerves and love and so many things he couldn't possibly describe.

Sherlock was miraculous, angelic, his halo of midnight curls topped with a crown of heather and white flowers. He wore a pale grey suit, with a small blue ribbon around his neck, and a traditional mantle around his shoulders with a train held by two adorable little page boys, John's nephews. His ivory skinned glowed with a subtle rosiness, his eyelashes fluttered down to watch his wrists, bound with blue silk rope. Mycroft held his arms by their bindings as they made their way towards the altar. A female omega or beta would have worn a veil, but omega males were married tied up- even if the kidnapping of the bride was no longer commonplace. Did all wedding tradition have such misogynistic roots? Sherlock seemed so, shy, embarrassed, it was lovely, all blushy and hunkered in on himself. His silver blue eyes flickered around the guests before looking right back down. His. That boy, right there, was his. John's chest heaved with pride, his lip turned into a smile. The most beautiful, brilliant boy in the world was _his_. 

Sherlock looked up to see John, and bit his lip in a small smile. Nobody had told him about the kilt, and it made him want to giggle, if only because he was so frightfully nervous and sad. This was it, he supposed. Slavery from one alpha to the next. John's eyes were so deep and cavernous he was liable to fall into them, and they held their gaze the final few yards of the aisle. John smiled, golden skin glowing, flaxen hair shimmering in the light of stained glass windows. Mycroft tugged Sherlock's hesitant feet along, and Sherlock looked away, a deep frustration and anger building inside him, standing there with Mycroft. The organ stopped, and the congregation sat. 

Sherlock looked down to the floor, bound wrists held in front of his stomach. His eyes flicked up to look once at Mycroft, who smirked horribly, and once to John, who met his eyes and smiled, mouthing "I love you,"

Sherlock looked back down quickly.

"Dearly Beloved, We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the presence of these witnesses, to join together this alpha and this omega in holy matrimony, which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocence, signifying unto us the mystical union that exists between Christ and His Church," Sherlock's heart raced, his eyes glazing with tears. John smiled, and made eye contact once again, his scent soothing and warm, rippling through Sherlock in waves of consoling pheromones. "It is, therefore, not to be entered into unadvisedly, but reverently, discreetly, _soberly_ and in the fear of God. Into this holy estate these persons present now come to be joined. Who gives this child to be married?" 

Mycroft gripped tight to Sherlock's hand, icy eyes melting for just a moment, before speaking, "I do," He pressed a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, whose knees hit the floor with a thump, his ears glaring crimson in embarrassment. Mycroft took the set of keys from his pocket, and with Sherlock's wrists in one hand, he handed both to John, who grasped Sherlock's wrist, warm and callused fingers rubbing a circle there, eyes apologetic and somewhat disgusted as he gripped the keys in his hand.

"John Hamish, will you have this omega to be your wedded bondmate, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, so long as he lives?"

"I will," John smiled, holding Sherlock's trembling shoulder firmly, as if to steady him as he knelt before him.

"William Sherlock Scott, will you have this man to be your Alpha, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? To love, honour, and obey him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, obey his order, as the church follows Christ, so bear his seed and be of his house, and to keep only onto him, as long you shall live?"

Sherlock could barely whisper, his voice threatening to break, "I will," looking up to John, eyes full and glassy and pure. The vicar smiled, turning to John.

"I, John Watson,"

"I, John Watson," He repeated, looking down at his omega with an aching pride, his lips helplessly turned into a smile. 

"Take thee, Sherlock," 

"Take thee, Sherlock," 

"To have and to hold, from this day forward, for richer, for poorer,"

"To have and to hold," He placed his hand closer to his neck, brushing across the pale expanse of marble, "from this day forward, for richer, for poorer," 

"...In sickness and in health"

"In sickness and in health,"

"...to love, cherish and protect from harm,"

"To love," He glowed, thumb brushing over Sherlock's scent gland, sending him into shivers, "cherish, and to protect form harm,"

"TIll death us do part,"

"Till death us do part," John smiled, and Sherlock blinked, eyelashes fluttering as he looked up, grasping Sherlock's hand and slipping on a silver band, with John's initials engraved on the inside, Sherlock watching intently. 

"Now dear, repeat after me, I, William Sherlock Scott," Sherlock swallowed, his entire body quivering, knees aching, heart racing. 

"I-I William Sh-Sherlock Scott," He whispered, voice shaky, head bowed. 

"Do pledge myself onto thee, John, to be yours"

"Do p-pledge myself onto thee, John, to be yours"

"From this day forward, for better for worse,"

"for better for worse, for richer for poorer," John smirked and the priest grumbled, Sherlock completely unaware he'd skipped ahead.

"In sickness and in health, to love and to obey,"

"In sickness and in health, to love and to," He swallowed, whispering, "obey," 

"Till death us do part," Sherlock looked up fearfully, barely choking the words out as he looked to John. 

"Till death us do part," The vicar beamed and John pulled out the second ring, turning over Sherlock's palm and placing the larger band there. The omega looked up, eyes full of confusion, but John gave him a nod, holding his own hand out. Sherlock looked worried but slipped the ring on John's finger, wrists still bound.

Mycroft scowled, the abbey breaking out into whispers. Alphas didn't wear wedding rings.

"So I'll always have you with me," John whispered.

The vicar cleared his throat and clasped his bible, rambling on in prayer. John couldn't help his alpha, a deep growl humming in his chest at the sight of this pure, virgin omega at his feet, which John knew was barbaric and horribly unfair, but his alpha was bubbling with excitement. Sherlock looked up once more, eyes wide and flickering green, his omega glowing as well, so proud to have made his Alpha happy. His insides were tumbling, his heart palpitating. His alpha? _His alpha!_ Fucking hell. Fuck. He wanted to rip his heart out of his chest for betraying him, his disgusting feelings and urges.

"...in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Those whom God has joined together let not man put asunder. Amen."

"Amen," The congregation replied, and John pulled on the loose end of the rope, pulling Sherlock's wrists from their bonds, and pressed a single kiss to each, eyes glimmering with pride as he pulled Sherlock from his knees, a hand to each side of his face, pulling him in for a gentle kiss. Public displays of affection, in a church no less, were a bit foreign- even if his alpha begged him to mark his claim, they had time to do it privately.

Sherlock pulled back slowly, fluttering his eyelashes as he looked up at John, a curl plopping out from beneath his crown, his alpha brushing it to the side, caressing his face softly. 

There was applause, and ringing bells and a beaming crowd of family. Sherlock was completely and utterly lost, eyes locked into John's- their deep blue shimmering like twilight, and as he looked carefully, he was quite sure he could just make out a thousand glowing stars inside of them. The world seemed to rotate around him, a brilliant burning sun at the center of the galaxy- Sherlock a cold and lonely moon before, now awash in the glow of _John._

John held tightly to his hand, wrapping their arms around each other, guiding him down the aisle in the blur of movement and sounds and colours. Sherlock was in a daze as they exited the church into a fountain of rice.

A warm gravely voice whispered in his ear, "I love you, Sherlock," 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of your feedback!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter even if it is quite short. The next few will be significantly longer and more, *ahem* well, you know
> 
> *kisses and hugs*


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft hated social gatherings, as a general rule. He looked down at his glass of champagne and sighed, watching each little bubble as it ventured to the surface with a teeny little _pop!_ There wasn't even cake. Just drinks and hors d'oeuvre, and _dancing._ Hateful. He set his glass aside and leaned on his umbrella, looking down at the beautiful redwood floors of the London house.

"Hey handsome," His head snapped up to see Gregory, looking rather smart in his tails, sitting next to him on the bench in the corridor. "It's almost time for speeches." He smiled, budging over, closer, their legs touching, and Mycroft gave a small smile before placing his hand on his husband's thigh, giving it a bit of a squeeze. 

"I think Sherlock would rather I abstain." He stated, Gregory's soft tea-coloured hair brushing against his neck. The beta smiled sadly and curled up closer. 

"He loves you My, he really does." Mycroft raised his eyebrows in disagreement, but continued to pet Gregory's knee, his skin warm beneath the fabric of his trousers. 

"I doubt I'll see him again. Not for a long while."

"My, stop this. He's family, of course you'll see him."

"He's John's family now."

"John is family too, you loon, now kiss me, I've got a speech to make and I need all the luck I can get."

"Am I especially lucky?"

"Most definitely, you've made me the luckiest man in the world." Mycroft didn't mean to laugh at his horridly sentimental joke, but he did. A sweet little snuffle from his nose. He pressed their lips together, Gregory slowly shifting, crawling into his lap and running his fingers through the Alpha's tawny locks. 

"Good luck," Mycroft whispered, and Greg smiled wide before standing up, straightening his tie and brushing down the front of his morning coat, giving his husband a wink.

Mycroft smiled into the empty corridor, Gregory really had ruined him. 

* * *

Sherlock wanted to disappear. His cheeks were a bright crimson and his eyes seemed to constantly be fighting tears as he sat, staring at his shaking hands.. and the ring. It fit perfectly, John had known his size without asking, which was a strange kind of impressive. Sherlock slipped it off, holding it in two hands and looking closely at the initials inside, deciding as to what shape of graver was used. _J. H. W._

He wondered if John's ring had _his_ initials inside.

For some god forsaken reason, the thought made his tummy flutter, and he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth nervously. It was not quite evening, and golden sun shone through the tall windows, casting big square shapes of light on the floor of the party. Somebody had put flowers and banners everywhere, which was strange. Dying plant carcasses had a rather macabre form of beauty, he supposed, but he doubted that's how most people saw it. Sherlock didn't know most of these people, and he kept his eyes down. He didn't want to know them. He didn't want to speak to any of them, these people who were celebrating his shame. 

His mind was betraying him. All he could think about was John. What was going to happen tonight? Would it hurt? Most likely. Yes, he was quite sure it was going to hurt. Even in heat, it would be horrific, painful, something foreign being shoved inside of him. It made him want to throw up. Mostly because some little voice inside of him _wanted_ it. Wanted to be as close to John as he possibly could, skin on skin, touching him, touching John, even if it hurt, he wanted to please John. He wanted it horribly. And it was revolting.

Suddenly, a warm callused hand found it's place on his neck.

"Is everything alright?" John whispered, voice low and gravelly, sending chills up Sherlock's spine. His scent filled Sherlock, warm and dark and weakening, the small boy shivering under his touch. Sherlock looked up slowly, long dark eyelashes fluttering, eyes wide and innocent. 

"f-fine," He said softly after a moment, swallowing thickly and trying not to tremble. John smelled so good, so safe and warm and powerful and his omega wanted to curl into his arms, to be protected. 

"Do you want to dance, darling?"

"No, no thank you," Sherlock mumbled, fumbling with his fingers shyly. John only smiled and pulled up a chair, legs wide as he sat, petting Sherlock's neck soothingly. Sherlock's delicious, sweet and minty smell had gone sour, and John couldn't help but comfort him. Biology, but something else as well, he supposed. 

"I was thinking we might get away early," John whispered, breath hot in Sherlock's ear. The omega flinched and looked up shyly. He blinked, struck dumb by the radiant man who was sitting close...so so close...Sherlock swallowed, cheeks flushing, mouth open ever so slightly. John growled and moved to kiss him when they were interrupted by a loud voice beside them.

"Alright, everybody, settle down," Greg shouted, clinking his glass with a butter knife, and the room fell into silence. "I'm gonna make a speech so you better be quiet!

"Right. Well, John asked me to be his best man yesterday, so I don't have anything ready," Greg blushed before wrapping his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, "but what can I say but how much I love these two people, especially my favouritest little brother," Greg tousled Sherlock's hair, his flower crown slipping down over his head. The omega blushed and grinned. 

" _Most favourite,"_ He whispered, and they shared a smile.

"John, me and Myc adore you. You're a good man, a wise man, and while I can't say being married to a Holmes' boy is easy," His eyes sparkled to Mycroft, who was leaning on his umbrella in the corner, "It is most definitely worth it. Best thing in the world, I say. Really, John, believe me when I say that this one, is the kindest, sweetest, bravest omega I know, and it's no small feat to be able to say that you've earned his love. Treat him well, John," There was something close to warning beneath his tone, but he could only grin, overcome with pride, deep brown eyes full of emotion, "Respect him, spoil him, try not to shout, and love him, as much as you can, because he deserves it." Greg choked, laughing at himself for being misty-eyed, "He really truly deserves it.

"And Sherlock," The omega looked up, "be good. Oh, and the middle name is Andrew, if you were looking for baby names."

John laughed, eyebrows raised and his lips turned into a smile. Sherlock only turned a deeper shade of crimson, tucking his hair behind his ears as John stood, his chair squeaking along the polished floor. Greg and John shook hands before John pulled the detective in for a hug. 

"Thank you so much, Greg, really." The detective beamed and raised his glass. 

"To the bride and groom," 

"to the bride and groom!" 

* * *

"I've sent Mrs. Hudson to her sisters'," John smiled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, a flutter in his heart at the sweet virgin smell of his neck, lapping his tongue at his scent gland. Sherlock shivered, standing straight and still. John squeezed his waist and pulled away, stepping off the kerb and loading the cases into the boot of the car. 

Cab. Cab to the house. _Hi_ _s_ house. Their house....going back to their house to...

"Wait! I forgot something!" Sherlock cried, rushing back into the door, not even chancing a look behind him to hear what John had to say. He pummeled straight into Greg, falling backwards, barely in time for him to grab his wrists and pull him up.

"Woah, easy there, y'alright, sport?" 

"Yes, fine. Excuse me."

He rushed up the staircase, into his quite empty room, slipping onto his belly and crawling under his bed, rattling open that floorboard and pulling out his case. It's contents had since been altered. It now held as much money as he could scrape together without Mycroft noticing, a bottle of Alpha cologne, and a list of phone numbers with two names. 

_Uncle Rudy_

_Greg Lestrade_

His emergency kit. He rustled through the inside pocket and pulled out his syringe, along with the small glass vial he'd set aside for this. Dear God, he hoped it would work, he'd snatched it from Mycroft's medicine cabinet. What Mycroft would want with an omega tranquilizer, Sherlock did not want to know. He slipped it into his pocket and closed the case, replacing it and pulling closed the floor board. He wondered if he'd ever see it again. 

"Sherlock?" Greg paused, knocking on the door, and swinging it open "John's outside, is everything alright?"

"Yes, I-I'm fine, I'm coming right down," He mumbled, tucking his hands in his pockets. Greg tutted and grasped him by the shoulders, looking him in the eyes, before pulling him into a tight embrace, "you'll be alright, sunshine," 

Sherlock stood frozen for a moment before melting into the touch.

"Right, now go on then," Sherlock dithered for a moment before going, each step down the stairs feeling ominous. 

_Goodbye house._

_Goodbye Sherlock._

* * *

John's knee shook with excitement as the car pulled away, _his_ omega leaning against the window glass, eyes the colour of Antarctica as he looked out into the dampened street. John's heart raced, placing his hand on Sherlock's knee, fingers tracing a light circle over the trouser fabric. Sherlock only tensed beneath him. 

"Love, are you alright?" Sherlock only nodded, but John could sense something was wrong. The omega turned, eyes wide and frightened.

"A-are you going to induce heat?" He whispered, hands clutching into fists, fingers trembling. John smiled reassuringly, patting his own knee (in trousers now thank God) and opening his arms. The timid creature shook, biting his lip, so unsure, before slowly sliding across the black leather seat and sitting closer to John. The Alpha reached around him, holding him close and combing fingers through his hair, knowing how it soothed him. 

"Of course not, darling, tonight is about me and you, just us, we don't need heat for that, do we?" He whispered sweetly, as if speaking to a child. Hell, Sherlock was a child, so insecure and afraid. He had nothing to be afraid of. Sherlock nodded his head and tucked his nose into John's shoulder, sucking up his scent. That intoxicating scent that made him feel...things? God! It was, not like anything before- it was, feelings, sentiment, something else. It made him want to both curl into his husbands lap and cry in a ball at his feet in equal measure. He whimpered and pressed himself further into his Alpha. John raised is eyebrows but kept his arm firm around Sherlock's shoulders, even when he felt warm tears soaking through his shirt. His Alpha was going crazy inside of him, screaming at him. S _top being so gentle and take him already! Claim him, mount him, breed him. NOW!_ He rolled his shoulders and closed his eyes, rubbing a circle on his omega's back. He really should have been insulted that Sherlock was crying, but he wasn't. Not in the slightest. He could not imagine what it must be like, constantly afraid of the weakness, vulnerability, not being able to control your own body. Sherlock would soon learn that he needn't control it, that was John's place, but for now, he only soothed him, whispering sweet nothings into his hair. 

They soon arrived at 221. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, so John scooped him up onto his hip (he was frighteningly underweight, and John made a mental note to put some meat on his bones) and stepped out onto the kerb, telling the driver to wait as he wrestled his keys out of his pocket and opened the big black door. Sherlock clung to him like a Koala bear, but John paused as they approached the threshold, smirking to himself and swinging Sherlock's legs around, holding him, quite literally, bridal style. The steps creaked under them and John carried Sherlock up to their flat, opening the bedroom door. Sherlock wasn't crying anymore, his eyes dark and resigned as john set him down on the soft blankets, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"I'll go get your cases, love," Sherlock didn't respond. He let himself sit atop this duvet that smelled like _Jawn._ For some reason it made him want to wrap himself inside of it and never come out again. But he couldn't do that. Not when he was in an Alpha's bedroom, with the same Alpha downstairs, about to come upstairs, about to mate with him. His omega screamed at him to strip, position himself submissively, wait patiently, beg for it. He only wanted to cry some more. He heard footsteps and scuffling below, so he hurriedly pulled the syringe from his pocket, pulling off his trousers. He quickly drew up the clear fluid into it, squirting a bit out the top to release any air bubbles. He knew how to do this. He swallowed, eyes damp, and jammed the needle into his thigh, biting on his lip to keep from crying. He quickly deposited the needle and vial into the bedside table drawer, crawling into the center of the bed and hugging his knees. He closed his eyes and waited.

At first it tingled, but soon he was floating. He was numb, he couldn't feel _anything_ , and it felt so squishy, his own flesh was foreign to him as he pinched at his thighs. He swallowed, checked his breathing. He was alright. Dizzy, sleepy, but alright. He could breathe. He'd be alright. The door creaked open and Sherlock froze, eyes still pressed shut. There was rustling, and a shift in the weight of the bed, before John's scent grew stronger and stronger.

"Open your eyes, darling, let me look at you," John whispered, voice hot and dark and gravely in his ear, and Sherlock instantly obeyed, he hadn't even noticed that John was straddling him, hands on the bed on either side of his face, head dipped low, nibbling kisses to his neck. Hell, he hadn't even noticed that his shirt was missing! John bit down a bit, but Sherlock didn't move. His eyes were fixed securely on the ceiling, and they were lined with tears. John's alpha growled at him, _come on! take him! NOW!_ But he shushed it, rightly concerned.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Sweet, innocent, weepy blue eyes found his instantly, and John could see something was wrong. Sherlock looked, defeated, not excited, not his shy sweet self, but a broken creature. John leaned in inquisitively and scented his neck before crawling off of him immediately, gagging at the acrid, sickening smell.

"Christ, Sherlock, what's going on?!" John shouted, and Sherlock only caved in on himself, tears slipping out from his eyes and down his cheeks. John growled, anger bubbling inside of him, and he reached out and grabbed Sherlock by the arm and pulled him up, and Sherlock whined as his back muscles spasmed. The Doctor in John was now _very_ concerned. He pulled open Sherlock's lidded eyes and examined his pupils, which were flared to all hell. He pressed two fingers to Sherlock's neck to feel a pulse and for a moment panicked, it was almost too weak to feel, but it was there, barely. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed again drowsily. John's heart raced as he held the delicate omega upright.

"Jesus Christ! Have you taken something?!" John growled, eyebrows furrowed. Sherlock nodded meekly and began to cry some more. 

"m'sorry, Jawn, p-please don't hurt-t me," He whispered, and John only growled. 

"Where is it? What have you taken?!" Sherlock whimpered and weakly pointed to the bedside table. John kept one hand on Sherlock's nape to keep him steady, and with the other opened the drawer, his heart sinking in his chest. He pulled out the vial and read the label in dismay.

"Sherlock are you insane?! This could kill you!" Sherlock only sobbed brokenly, choking and coughing weakly, barely able to breathe. John immediately helped him, patting his back and keeping his airway open. Sherlock's raven hair was damp with sweat, his skin ashen pale, his eyes dull and glassy. 

"Why the hell would you take this?" John shouted, and Sherlock whimpered.

"I didn't want it to hurt! I didn't want..." Sherlock mumbled, tears flowing free, arms hanging limp at his sides. "I didn't want to hurt," He whispered, his conscious mind slipping as the drug took it's effects. John closed his eyes and growled even lower and louder, the omega trembling and whimpering, cowering in fear. "m'sorry, Jawn, don't hurt me, please, you can still have me, I won't fight, please Jawn, I won't fight back I won't-"

John put a hand over his husband's mouth and glared at him, his eyes swirling tempests of wild blue, a crashing sea of emotions as he fought back the grumbling Alpha in his chest, gritting his teeth and shaking his head.

"No Sherlock. Stop it. Now. I'm not going to hurt you, Jesus," John paused, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" Sherlock's eyes gleamed with fresh tears and John released his hand from his mouth, brushing through his curls instead, his eyes flickering over his omega's face, who still looked rather terrified. He pulled the small boy into his arms and pet his hair, pulling them under the covers, holding his tiny little spoon around the middle. Sherlock would need to stay on his side, to keep from choking in his sleep.

"Darling, it doesn't hurt, not if it's done right, even out of heat," He whispered, pressing calming hands to his petal smooth skin. "Sex is rather enjoyable, trust me," John smiled, and Sherlock seemed to relax, even if his scent still reeked of the tranquilizer. Sherlock was barely awake, barely in control, but it was alright. John was holding him, keeping him, he was enveloped in the safe, warm smell of John. He reached with shaking hands and grasped Johns, which were resting around his tummy, the Alpha letting out a pleased grunt and squeezing his fingers. 

"Sleep, love, aeroplane leaves at 9 tomorrow," Sherlock nodded fuzzily, _An Aeroplane?_ Now that was interesting. He breathed in a gulp of _Jawn_ and slipped into a deep sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, cuties!!! I know a lot of you asked for John to be a lot more rough and dominating and "Alpha" during sex, but I just couldn't do that to Sherlock, (at least not the first time *wink*)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the honeymoon-parite un!
> 
> "Princess" By Tommy Steele
> 
> "Le tourbillon de la vie" by Jeanne Moreau

11 May 1939

Warm sunlight shone through the tall windows of their bedroom, cool whispers of spring sunlight billowing through the curtains and casting the bedroom in a sepia glow. John Watson was already awake. Quite so. Some things stayed the same, even when one was on leave. He took a deep, long breath, the sweet smell of his omega back once again. He smiled and turned his chin to look at the gangly ivory boy that lay atop his chest, floof of midnight curls splayed across John's golden skin, mouth slightly open as he slept. Face sweet and innocent, and John gently traced across his cheekbones, adoring the little flinches beneath his fingers as he slept. John could stay here, right here, forever, with _his_ omega. But they had a plane to catch. He pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, buried under a cacophony of wild hair. Sherlock stirred, yawning softly and fluttering his eyelashes, before realizing where he was. He tensed immediately, sitting up quickly, head spinning with a horrible ache. John smiled and ran fingers through his own dusty blonde hair, sitting back against the headboard as Sherlock sat up, legs draped over the edge of the bed, hands on his temples. 

"Feeling better, princess?" John lulled, eyes clear and bright as he pressed another kiss to the nape of his neck, hands on either of his shoulders. Sherlock nodded. 

"Still a bit dizzy," He mumbled, cheeks flaring in shame. His eyes flicked over to the bedside table. John tutted and turned his chin to face him, pulling the boy around and looking at him intently.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ do that again," Sherlock nodded sadly, and John smiled, "Quite right, now let's get you dressed, darling," He pat his knee and Sherlock crawled off the bed, feet cold against the wood floors of their room as he padded towards the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar- he didn't know the rules here, and he didn't want to break them, not again. He looked at his own reflection, a bit flushed with fever, his hair like a fluff of wool on his head. He quickly turned the taps and washed his skin with the soap he found. He jumped when he looked in the mirror and saw John watching him.

"Why are you watching me?" Sherlock said, heart thumping in his chest as John came up behind him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and kissing his neck. It felt, warm and soft and wet and he wanted to faint.

"I want to learn everything, your routines, what products you use, do you wear makeup? Do you curl your hair? Do you prefer to bathe at night or in the morning, I must know every little thing about you. I find it all so very fascinating." John whispered into his ear, Sherlock's lips turned into a shy smile, meeting his dark blue eyes in the mirror.

"Well, the curls are natural, and I don't usually wear any makeup," He said softly, twisting open a tin of moisturizer and dotting it on his drier skin. 

"You could be a film star, you know, or a model, you're so frightfully gorgeous, darling," John smirked and watched Sherlock intently as he went back into the bedroom. 

He looked to his pile of suitcases and knelt to go through them as John turned on the water to start shaving. Sherlock waited until the door snapped shut to remove his pants and nightshirt, suddenly overcome with a need for modesty, even after last night. Once naked he quickly found his way into pants, tall socks and a vest, pulling a dark blue button down over his shoulders, and stepping into tan trousers, hopping a bit as he zipped them up. He clipped on his braces and flipped his cuffs over to clasp each pearl button closed before selecting his brown oxfords and lacing them. He spritzed himself with his perfume, if only because it hid his own scent somewhat, and tied his hair up in a scarf, far too tired to wrangle with it this morning. He looked over to a tall mirror in the corner, slowly stepping towards it and examining his reflection. Film star? No way. Not with that face. He turned and closed his cases again, now terribly unsure what to do. He sneaked across the floor and towards the washroom, pushing open the door slightly. 

"Oh, sorry love, I'll only be a minute," John smiled as he pulled the safety razor down his chin. Sherlock watched intently. Omegas were quite hairless besides their heads, and Sherlock had never shaved in life. 

"Does it hurt?" He said softly, and John only smiled. 

"No, it doesn't hurt, unless I nick myself, which doesn't happen much anymore."

"How fast does it grow?"

"I shave everyday." John smiled, splashing his face with water and toweling off. He patted himself with aftershave and Sherlock's nose went crazy, sniffing the air to understand the strong scent. Sherlock reached out hesitantly, and the Alpha seemed to understand, offering his face forward for Sherlock to examine. 

"How long would it take until you had a beard?"

"Probably a few weeks or a month," He smiled as Sherlock's delicate fingers traced over the skin, his eyes flickering, cataloging every centimetre of John's face. 

"Could you not shave tomorrow, just for an experiment?" 

"An experiment?" John raised his eyebrows and smirked.

"I want to know _exactly_ how fast this hair grows."

"Well, it's different for everyone, and I'm afraid it's against regulation, darling," John's fingers wrapped around his hands, pulling them from his face and pressing kisses along his palms as Sherlock squirmed and smiled. "But I can probably get a nice stubble before I ship out, that is if you don't mind scratchy kisses,"

"I don't mind." Sherlock whispered, and John pressed a line of kisses along his neck, crawling up to his chin and stopping on the corner of his lips. 

"Are you all packed?"

"Yes, Jawn."

"Good lad, now go fetch me some shoes, they're over there," He gestured to the armoire, and Sherlock hurried off as John pulled on his vest and tugged on trousers. Sherlock didn't even realized he'd followed an order until he held the shoes and socks in his hands, looking down at them in horror. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

"Don't be all day about it, we've got a plane to catch," Sherlock bit his cheek but turned around anyways, feet seeming to move of their own volition as John sat on their bed, fastening his cuff links. Sherlock seemed to understand what he was implying, and knelt on the hard wooden floor, tugging socks onto John's feet, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, his mind screaming at him. _Stop this! You're pathetic, pathetic little omega serving his Alpha like a good little bitch, huh?_ Sherlock's stomach churned as he guided his feet into the shoes and laced them with intent, looping the bunny ears around twice. John smiled and pet his hair beneath his scarf. 

"Greg said your things will be all moved in by the time we get back," Sherlock nodded and fluttered his eyelashes. "Right, now let's go, darling"

* * *

Sherlock's eyes widened to saucers as the cab pulled up to the airfield. He looked over to John, who looked horribly neutral, how could he be so placid when there was an _aeroplane_ , right. there. It was the size of a bus! It's metal shell shone brilliantly in the sun, and Sherlock had to shield his eyes from the glare. 

"Is terribly loud, John?" Sherlock said in awe, and John only continued to read his newspaper.

"A bit."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Not particularly, they know what they're doing, and we won't be crossing any mountain ranges."

"Is it terribly expensive to fly?" John smiled. 

"It was a wedding present from your dearest brother." He muttered sarcastically and Sherlock momentarily frowned, even if it was _Mycroft's_ idea, it was still a bloody good one! A plane! This was so wonderfully exciting. 

"John! Why aren't you more excited?!"

"Sherlock, my father served in the war, he commanded an air squadron." John adjusted his collar, his throat tight at the thought of his father, with his horrible grey beard and that goddamn pipe. 

"Oh that's fascinating!" 

"Not really, Sherlock, now put on your coat. It's cold."

"But it's 15 degrees John!"

"It will be cold on the plane, love," Sherlock's mouth hung open and his lips turned into a smile. This was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. A plane! His shoes clacked on the tarmac, and John handed him the two lightest cases. Sherlock held their tortoise-shell handles excitedly, his knuckles white as he grasped them. 

"John! Hurry!" He shifted from foot to foot as the Alpha paid the cab driver. John turned around and gave him a hand and an aggravated look, so Sherlock bit his lip. A woman stepped down the metal steps and approached him a posh-looking dress and a fake smile. 

"I can help you with your luggage, sir," She smiled, he swallowed nervously and held his suitcases closer. 

"No, I can do it," He insisted, and John came up behind him and gave her a grin, his hand resting on the small of Sherlock's back. 

"Let the nice lady help you, darling," Sherlock looked up at John and begrudgingly handed her the cases. She gave him a plastic smile and took them, her shoes clacking fast and hard as she walked to the side of the plane and gave them to a boy who was loading things inside. A few other passengers were arriving, and Sherlock subconsciously stepped closer to John. The flight attendant returned and took their tickets. 

"If you'd like to follow me, Dr. Watson," Her tight bun shook with each sharp step as she led them to the plane. Sherlock held tight to John's jacket, feeling horribly shy. His heart raced as they stepped aboard, the inside was rather small, just three rows of seats, two across, and an aisle down the side. Sherlock immediately took the window, John sitting next to him. He watched her as she intently click clacked to greet another set of passengers. 

"Her husband is a groom, John, in Ascot" John cocked an eyebrow.

"You know her?"

"No, of course not don't be silly. The hairs John! Horsehair on the back of her dress, also, her accent, received pronunciation, quite formal for a stewardess, don't you think? Well she's from Berkshire, but she's not upperclass, and her hair pin has a tip of mud on it, a gift from her husband, clearly, too nice to be just an ordinary present, and the mud is rather fresh. Husband exposed to mud and horsehair in West Country? Could be a jockey, but going by her smell she's married to an Alpha, and I personally have only heard of two Alpha jockeys, you need to be light, so groom's much more likely." Sherlock took in a breath, quite winded, and looked up to John expectantly. 

"Brilliant, Sherlock." He smiled, eyebrows raised, and Sherlock glowed with pride.

"Really Jawn?"

"Yes, love, quite extraordinary," John whispered, placing his hand on Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock flushed, leaning his cheek against John's shoulder and breathing in deep. 

* * *

Sherlock's breathing was heavy. In. Out. In. Out. Don't be so weak, don't be so weak! The plane fell, his stomach lurching, his heart stopping. He let out a squeak through his nostrils and pressed his eyes shut. 

"Sherlock, you're alright," John said firmly as Sherlock trembled, reaching out to take his omega's hand, "I'm here, love, and nothing bad can happen when I'm here."

"That's preposterous, John, you couldn't stop a plane crash!"

"The plane is _not_ crashing. It's only turbulence, darling," The plane dropped again, and Sherlock whimpered, pressing his nose into John's neck, sucking back the warm affirming scent, strong and powerful and safe, and for a moment, it seemed entirely possible John could stop a plane crash if he wanted. "You're safe," John whispered, petting Sherlock's hair gently, pressing a kiss to his head. "You're safe with me, love,"

* * *

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, lifting his head off of John's shoulder, who was reading his paper. He blinked and looked around the cabin. John smiled and folded his paper. 

"I wondered when you'd decide to wake up," 

"We've landed, John!"

"Refueling, love, we're in Paris,"

"Paris?! Oh John, are we going to see it?"

"We'll see if we can stop on our way home. We've still got a few more hours until we get to Monaco, darling, do you want some tea?"

"No, I'm alright, Jawn, flying makes me sleepy,"

"I could tell," John smiled, fluffing his hair and Sherlock found his place on his shoulder, sighing satedly. 

* * *

"We're here, darling," John nudged Sherlock awake, who sat up instantly, eyes darting about, before settling back on John's shoulder. 

"But I'm comfy, John," He mumbled, nuzzling at the collar of John's jacket. John shook his head and stood, stretching his arms a bit before holding his hand out for Sherlock, who groaned, but took it anyways. They stepped out along with another couple, and Sherlock immediately recoiled from the sun. 

"Feeling warmer, darling?" John grinned and wrapped their arms together, putting his hat on. Sherlock squinted his eyes and scrunched up his face. 

"Quite,"

"We need to get you some glasses, love," John smiled. Sherlock gripped onto his jacket arm, eyes wide as he examined the airfield. 

"John, why are there so many army planes?"

"Darling, we're in France, it's 1939, what did you expect?" John sighed and examined them himself. "Safety precaution, I imagine. Come on, let's go to the house and settle in," Sherlock nodded, eyes doleful as he tucked his ear to John's shoulder. 

They took a hired car, and Sherlock sat, gazing out the window in awe. Palm trees lined the avenue, tall white hotels and bicycles and flowers and a thousand new smells that wafted through the open window. The terrain soon turned to hills covered in luscious green semi-tropical grasses and shrubs, little cutouts of crumbling white rock. 

"Isn't it marvelous, John?!"

"It's beautiful, your uncle is very generous," John mumbled as they pulled up to the vila, which was two stories of stone brick, with green shuttered windows and a tile roof. A large old woman sat in a chair on the patio, in a blue uniform with a white apron. The car turned off, and John opened the door, holding it open and offering his hand to Sherlock, who took it with a blush. Sherlock shyly approached the house as John sorted the cases from the boot. 

"Bonjour, le belle neveu des Maîtres!" _(Hello! The beautiful nephew of the master!)_ She cried, jumping from her chair and rushing to meet them. Sherlock barely moved as she grabbed him by the face and pressed a kiss to each cheek. "Le garçon sur les photos! Sherlock!" ( _The boy from the photographs!_ ) He kissed her back and smiled, for once grateful for his hateful lessons in french.

"Qui êtes-vous, madame?" (Who are you, ma'am?)

"Je m'appelle Marie et qui est votre mari?" (I'm Marie, and is this your husband?) She raised her eyebrows at John, who was speaking to the driver and hadn't noticed her. 

"Oui, c'est John," (Yes, this is John) He said shyly and she cooed, poking him in the tummy. 

"Si beau! Si beau!" (So handsome!!) She cried, pulling Sherlock by the hand and giggling. He returned a small smile as John came, cases tucked under his arms. 

"Ah, hello, I'm John Watson," He set down a case and held out his hand which she took and shook with glee. 

"Votre mari est si belle, homme chanceux!" (Your husband is so beautiful, you lucky man!)

"I'm sorry, we don't speak french, ma'am," John scrunched his eyebrows and Sherlock cut in.

"John ne parle pas français, Marie," (John doesn't speak french, Marie) Sherlock said sweetly, and John's eyebrows raised, his mouth open slightly. She hummed and ushered them inside. John was speechless as Sherlock looked around excitedly. John felt a growl in his chest, a deep rumbling that sent his Alpha on fire. He pulled Sherlock by the waist and whispered in his ear.

"I didn't know you spoke french, darling,"

"Oh, right. My tutor was an imbecile, I learned it in weeks, but he continued to drill me with irregular verbs for months, it's not something I'm liable to forget." John only growled, nibbling on the edges of his ear.

"I like it," Sherlock's cheek flushed and Marie made a sound.

"Bon dieu! Je vais vous donner un peu d'intimité!" (Oh gosh! I'll give you two some privacy!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I do not speak french, but I did change some of the adjectives for Sherlock to their feminine versions so don't be alarmed!
> 
> 2) It may get even more ~heated~ in the French Riviera next chapter...;)
> 
> 3) I love you all so very much, thank you for your support <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good morning! or good evening? I wouldn't know, I'm nocturnal
> 
> anyways, warnings for smuttiness, and a/b/o smuttiness can often feel dubcon, and it is, slightly, so just a warning, cuties, ilysm

Sherlock leaned his head against the rail as he sat on the terrace, legs dangling into the warm Mediterranean air, a sweet citrus smell filling his lungs as he watched the rolling hills of countryside and listened to sweet chirping of birds somewhere far away. The switch from London to Monaco was going from black and white newsreels to technicolor films, and Sherlock sighed satedly. There was no Mycroft here. No expectations. No stupid parties or rules or ceremony. Just the sun hanging low in the sky and the trees and the sea. 

"There you are," came John's voice from behind him, and Sherlock turned around nervously, his Alpha stepping out from the opened green doors, sitting next to him. He was in really lovely shorts and a striped button down, wearing sunglasses with a wicker basket beside him. "The maid packed us lunch, I think," He smiled, leaning back on his palms, arms somewhat wrapped around Sherlock's back. "I thought we'd go to the beach,"

Sherlock nodded, pearly blue eyes averted, watching the carpark intently. John leaned in closer, palm against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock dark navy shorts as well, if not a bit shorter and tighter, with a silky long sleeved blouse, with sunglasses tucked up over his hair scarf. John leaned in and pressed a kiss just above Sherlock's ear, twirling a finger through a single ringlet of ebony. 

"It'll be fun, I promise," Sherlock only nodded shyly as John pulled him up, leading him by the hand downstairs, giving Sherlock the basket "Bye, Marie!" He called as they pushed open the front door. 

"Au revoir, Marie!" Sherlock echoed, and John smirked to himself. 

"amusez-vous, les garçons! à la française!" Marie giggled and waved them off as they walked down the dusty road arm in arm. John waved back with a furrowed brow.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing, John."

* * *

Looking back, they would laugh at the irony of a holiday in France. It would only be a few months before it all seemed like a dream, but for now, all was beautiful. The ocean was clear and brilliant blue, and Sherlock was entranced. He shivered in his swimming costume, holding his clothes and shoes to his bare chest modestly, digging his toes in the sand as John put down a blanket and set up an umbrella. Sherlock watched longingly as a gaggle of pups splashed around, their mum watching with a smile and a baby on her hip. Soon a tall alpha with a mustache came from the water and swung a pup over his shoulder, the blonde little girl giggling and squealing, the woman scolding them in french. His heart tightened, something inside of him awestruck at the sight of a happy family. Him and Mycroft, they weren't a family. Not like this. 

"You aright there, princess?" John rubbed his hand up and down along Sherlock's bare back, and Sherlock nodded mutely. The afternoon sun glimmered in the water and John grinned, pulling Sherlock along, who stopped at the edge, eyes transfixed by the water, which crawled up the sand, barely gracing each toe before retreating. There weren't many people out, just the family and a few stragglers in beach chairs. 

"I can't swim, John, I think I'll just stay here."

"Spoilsport!" John cried as he stood waist deep, and Sherlock's heart raced at the sight of his alpha, glowing in the sun, bristly flaxen hair carpeting the golden skin of his chest. He looked like a greek god, radiant and strong, chiseled jaw and biceps that flexed with a silent strength. John turned and dove into the clear aquamarine, powerful legs propelling him. Sherlock smiled and ran across the beach to the steps of the painted white dock which moaned and creaked in the water, and his bare feet tapped along the planks of wood as he raced out past the rows of motorboats. He passed a few people, but his eyes were fixed on the golden alpha in the water. John saw him and swam to the end of the boat dock. Sherlock grinned and plopped down at the end, feet dipped into the lapping sea, watching as John came to the edge, treading water and smiling up at him, flipping his blonde hair out of his eyes and clearing his nose. 

"it's a shame you're all the way up there," He smirked, arms to either side of Sherlock's knees, gripping the dock edge. "The water's amazing," Sherlock cheeks flared, his heart racing, suddenly quite bashful. His pale skin shone ivory in the sun, a healthy amount of freckles already beginning to bloom across his shoulders. John put his hands on the tops of Sherlock's thighs, tan skin contrasting so vividly as his thumb caressed a small spot at the hem of his shorts. 

"I can't swim, John," Sherlock mumbled, fiddling with his fingers in his lap as John pressed himself up using the edge of the dock, the omega budging over to make room as he hoisted himself up next to Sherlock. The alpha's eyes glowed mischievously, and Sherlock really ought to have seen it coming, he was far to lost in John's eyes to notice before it was far too late. The shock of the slap of water on his skin was only momentary before he went under, struggling fitfully to crawl up to the surface, shaking out his curls underwater, eyes pressing closed. Suddenly he was pulled up, two strong hands under his armpits, until he was back in the air again. He sucked in a breath before he coughed and spit up water, his eyes burning with saline. His eyes glowed like a cat in the bathtub as he frantically tried to paddle.

"Would be a shame if you'd miss out, wouldn't you say?" John panted, laughing heartily at the betrayed expression on Sherlock's face. Sherlock huffed and pouted. Delicate pale fingers gripped tight to the smooth, dampened skin of John's shoulders as John held them both above water. 

"I'm cross with you, John, don't forget it," Sherlock grumbled, tucking his forehead against John's shoulder, beads of water dripping off of his sopping curls as they floated close. John only chuckled and pushed his arms back, eliciting a squeak from Sherlock as he swam further out on his back. 

"Jawn! Stop! Take me back, Jawn!!" Sherlock screeched, scrambling, wrapping himself tightly around John like gangly lichen.

"Do you trust me Sherlock?" John said softly into the air between their faces, and Sherlock looked up instantly, opal eyes glittering, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth. 

"John, I can't swim, I'll drown," He said quickly, clinging around him even more desperately, looking back to the shore with worry. 

"I said," John whispered, eyes dark as their foreheads touched, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, "Do you trust me?" Sherlock's breath hitched as his eyes flickered over John, they were so close he was a bit cross-eyes trying to look him in the eyes. Sherlock let out a shaky breath, dripping inky curls plastered to his forehead. 

"I-" he whispered, "I trust you," John smiled, and Sherlock trembled as his legs unwrapped from around John's waist, John's hands under his arms, eyes warm and soothing. Sherlock blushed, pushing forward and kissing John's wet lips with an appalling squeaky noise. John chuckled and kissed back, one hand resting on Sherlock's cheek, smiling beneath his plush rosy lips.

"Lie back, Sherlock," John said gently, hands on Sherlock's shoulder blades, holding him up, Sherlock squirmed, straining his neck up to avoid the water. "Settle, love," John said sweetly, steadily. Sherlock leaned back, still hesitant. John nodded in approval before lightly moving his hands away. Sherlock panicked, thrashing in the water and hugging back to John, whimpering. 

"John! You let go of me!" He cried, tucking his nose into John's neck, who chuckled and rubbed circles on his milky smooth back. 

"You have to relax, love, just let go and trust me, I won't let you drown," John soothed into his ear as he tread water, holding the both of them upright in the water. 

"You promise?" Sherlock whispered.

"I promise," John smiled as Sherlock nodded, leaning back again, the army doctor's strong hands beneath him. "Let go, Sherlock. _I've got you._ " Sherlock shakily let go, eyes pressed closed, and John pulled his hands out from beneath him, and Sherlock bit his lip. "See love, you're alright, I'm right here," John smiled as Sherlock tensed and wrapped around him again. John frowned and pressed a hand to Sherlock's forehead. 

"You're a bit warm, love, are you feeling alright?" Sherlock nodded, tucking his nose into his neck, legs wrapped around his middle. 

"M'fine, Jawn," Sherlock whispered, and John inquisitively scented him before raising his eyebrows. 

"Sherlock," John said seriously, "I think we ought to be getting back," 

"I think you're right John," Sherlock said drowsily, reaching a hand down to grab at his aching stomach. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled him, back to chest, the omega leaning his head back against John, and his scent grew stronger and stronger. He pulled them both up onto the dock. He pulled Sherlock up into his arms, Sherlock's legs wrapped around his middle as he walked back to the shore. He sat Sherlock down and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. Sherlock's skin itched and burned, the beading water of his skin beginning to mix with sweat, but he kept it on, his mind still present enough to know that they couldn't walk all the way back with him halfway dressed.

He blinked sleepily, a wave of uneasiness filling him. Heat! He was in heat. Shit! Shit! John...John was going to...His mind was fuzzy and he loathed it. Loathed his body and it's stupid chemicals and his stupid brother and...and...Tears welled in his eyes as he fought it.But it was futile. John pulled him up onto his hip as he carried their things up the sand and up the path to the street. A french man was standing at the top leaning against a motorcar and smoking, his nose twitched instantly as they approached and he put out his cigarette. Sherlock was still unbounded, virgin and fresh and delicious. The man was clearly a beta, and he pulled off his hat, eyes wide as John flashed his teeth in a possessive gesture, arm tightening around Sherlock.

"Monsieur! Votre oméga! Mon dieu, je peux te ramener à la maison dans ma voiture," (sir, your omega! my god i can take you home in my car) He cried, and Sherlock muttered in John's ear. 

"What was that Sherlock?" John whispered.

"He-he wants to drive us home, Jawn," Sherlock mumbled. John nodded and let the man open the door for them. Sherlock whined as John let go, but he soon slid next to him, keeping him close, Sherlock's nose glued to his neck, gulping in the husky powerful smell of an Alpha just beginning his rut, reeking of possessive, competitive hormones.

"Just here," John pointed to the turn, but Sherlock was so out of it, all he could think about was the itchy burn of his sweaty blanket sticking to his back and his neck. He whined and tried to tug it off, but John tutted and kept it around him. "We're almost there, Sherlock, just relax," John had to admit, he needed to relax as well. His Alpha was going insane. _His_ omega was going into heat, all his, every heartbeat chanted a mantra of _mark claim mount knot bond breed mark claim mount knot bond breed claim mount knot bond..._

 _"_ Jawn, I- I need to tell y-you- before I go under- I w-wanted this, even without the- oh god!" Sherlock keened. John's eyes widened and he rubbed Sherlock's back kindly, Sherlock practically glowing at the touch. The car pulled up to the vila and John let out a sigh of relief.

"Oh, thank you, thank you so much, dear chap, here," John went gave the man some money, who shook his head and tipped his hat as he pulled Sherlock and their picnic out of the car. The car pulled away and Marie came waddling out of the door. She smelled them halfway there.

"Oh mon! Oh mon! tu montes à l'étage, je vais te chercher de la nourriture!" (Oh my! Go upstairs and I can bring you some sustenance!) She cried, pulling John by the elbow into the house, who could only nod and smile and hope for the best. Sherlock whined, trembling and aching, his scent growing sweeter and John had to control himself to not mount him in the hallway. She pushed them into the master bedroom and opened their basket, pulling out the fruit and bread and bottle of sparkling water. She popped it open with a bottle opener that appeared out of nowhere before hurrying out, the door closing behind her with a click.

"Jaawwn!" Sherlock groaned, writhing on the bed, feeling the beginnings of slick between his legs. He caught his breath, tears running down his face, "Jawn I- I- I don't, I've never-" Sherlock whispered, shaking his head, sweaty curls slapping against his skin. 

"Shh, I'm here, Sherlock, you're alright," John said kindly pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. 

" _Jawn!_ Jawn I think I need you- need you to-" Sherlock keened through his nose, a wave of heat and pain rippling through every muscle in his body, each nerve ending burning with fire, his skin glowing with sweat. He lay on his back, knees bent and spread open. John took his place between his legs, breathing deep gulps of ripe and intoxicating omega heat. His chest thundered with growls, and he brought his nose between Sherlock's thighs, nuzzling at his small little cock through the fabric. Sherlock bucked his hips up and moaned, but John sat up and tapped his thigh. 

"I know, love, but you're not ready for me yet," He helped Sherlock out of his swimming costume, the sheets already sporting a wet spot beneath Sherlock. John sat back on his knees and pulled off his own shirt, Sherlock's pupils flared with lust, his pains growing stronger and sharper. 

"J-awn, please! Please! Please, John, please, I want you John," The Alpha sighed, leaning in and lapping at Sherlock's neck. An Alpha's rut saliva was full of antibiotics, John had even studied it in school, and it helped keep bond bites clean of infection. 

"You're almost there, darling," John growled, fighting to control himself. "Up and over, darling," He tapped Sherlock's thigh and the omega immediately obeyed, flipping onto his stomach. He tugged off his own trousers and took Sherlock's wrists into his hands, placing them to either side of his head. "Stay," He growled, and Sherlock whimpered, squirming, but obediently keeping his hands placed right where John had said. John tugged up on his hips, pulling him to his hands and knees, pressing a line of kisses down his spine, before he pressed his mouth to Sherlock's entrance, slurping at his fluids, tongue just barely tracing his rim- the muscle weakening and trembling as John indluged.

Sherlock's breath hitched, his chest heaving silently, eyes pressed closed, quite wordless as he pushed backwards, non-coherent begging falling from his lips to the pinstripe sheets. John lapped, the sweet taste of Sherlock. He pulled back, leaving Sherlock a whining and whimpering mess. John growled in warning to his omega and Sherlock obediently stuffed his face into the sheets. 

He roughly replaced his tongue with two fingers, Sherlock squealing at the sudden intrusion, bucking his backwards against the rough callused skin that stretched at his sopping entrance, his cock begging for attention. 

"p-p-please! please Jawn! I need it, I need it John, your cock, John, please!" 

"You do, don't you?" John grumbled, giving Sherlock's arse a firm slap, sitting back, pulling his own shorts down, purpling cock springing free, Sherlock's eyes widened peeked over his shoulder, John was... he'd never seen anything like that... he must've been at least 9 inches long and so so wide. Oh God. Sherlock kicked out in horror, caught between craving and genuine visceral terror. John pet Sherlock's flank softly, "We're going to go slow, darling," He murmed, dark and a bit hoarse and Sherlock nodded, his sweaty dark ringlets smooshed into the bed.

John positioned himself and slowly worked the bulbous tip in, Sherlock wriggling on his knees, elbows buckling, attempting to push back into it more. "Ah-Ah, I decide, darling, you just sit back and think of England," All at once, Sherlock giggled, more than a bit delirious at the relief of John inside of him. John furrowed his eyebrows and smiled, leaning in to Sherlock's ear, his own cheeks flushed, "you can't giggle while we're fucking, it's not decent,"

Sherlock only mumbled an incoherent reply, words a slurred mess as a second wave of need rippling through him, shuddering and bucking his hips back as John slowly pulled out and in again, hand gripped around Sherlock's hip, the other planted firmly on the small of his back.

"Oh, god, _Sherlock,"_ He groaned, head thrown back as he picked up the pace, the omegas name feeling holy on his tongue. Sherlock whined, eyes clenched tight, drenched curls flapping against his forehead as he rut himself against the sheets with each punishing thrust. 

"J-Jawn, I-" His eyes rolled back, "Good god, John, please more, please," 

"Not until I say," John growled, sucking monstrous purple marks all along Sherlock's pale freckled shoulders, marble white flesh between his teeth. 

"P-please! Please! I want it, John, please!" Sherlock sobbed, desperation and soul crushing _need_ dripping through every word. 

"You can come, darling," John whispered gravely as he pummeled into him, hips bucking as he reached his climax as well. Sherlock came in a ribbon of clear fluid, and John roared, a deep grumble that shook through Sherlock as his knot began to swell- pushing at the sensitive ring of muscle

" _Mine!_ "John seethed, slapping a hand to Sherlock's arse, and biting at his ear.

"Yours! yours, John, please, fill me, John, please I need it, all of it, _alpha, please!_

His seed began to surge into his omega, by insticts alone, he growled, pressing Sherlock down by his back and shoving forward his knot, squeezing through, his bullocks finally pressed completely to Sherlock's arse. Sherlock screamed, his eyes watering, _Oh god he was going to rip in half!,_ hanging his head between his shoulders and trembling as John filled him to the brim, burst after burst of fluid, he felt as though he could feel it sloshing inside of him. The Alpha leaned in, breath hot on Sherlock's moistened skin, sucking up a gulp of omega's delicious scent. His canines gleamed as he suddenly bit down on his sensitive neck, the taste of copper on his tongue. Sherlock wailed, his eyes watering and his heart clenching as a strange and ethereal feeling flowed down every vein in a thudding beat of _John John John John John JOHN!_

John snarled, teeth embedded in Sherlock's flesh, hips still bucking, the knot quite sealed. He let go and began to painstakingly clean the nasty mark, lapping at the drops of blood at the purpling bite. 

"Oh, Sherlock, oh _darling_ ," He whispered into those precious soft, sopping wet curls, tucking them behind his lover's ears. Sherlock fell limp against him, and John pulled them on their sides, the knot still pulsing, binding them together, their bodies still hot and slick with sweat. John kissed along Sherlock's freckled pale shoulders, breathing in warm breaths, the thin, delicate boy so wonderfully claimed. _His omega._ Sherlock's breaths were steady and shallow as he rode out the high. 

"Was I good, John?" Sherlock whispered into the fogged warmth and quiet, and John grunted, wrapping his arms around his middle and caressing his stomach gently, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear as his omega purred.

"Oh yes, quite good. You're such a good boy for me, darling," John whispered, thumb brushing across Sherlock's sharp hipbone. 

It took about ten minutes for the knot to fade, and for them to come unscrewed. Sherlock was a sleepy thing, face slopping onto the pillow after John forced grapes and water down his throat. He grumbled and spread out exhausted and John only chuckled, tucking into the bread and petting his milky naked back gently as he slept, it would only be an hour at most before Sherlock was ready again, and John sat satedly against the headboard, watching the swaying of trees out the windows. 

Suddenly, a horrible, terrible cloud came down on John. Somehow, in the swimming and the drive and the heat they'd forgotten the condom. 

Fuck!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading cuties, forgive me and my horrible attempts at smut <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: John does something bad
> 
> also, PSA, don't try and write when you're sad or angry, because everything gets way too angsty way too fast

15 May 1939

The night air was cool on Sherlock's cheeks, rustling through his curls, forcing him to brush them from his eyes if he was to see. John's breathy snores filtered through the doors of the terrace, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile. God help him. He looked over his shoulder to watch the rising and falling of John's chest, covered in sheets from the waist down, except for a single muscular leg poking out from beneath them, glowing with a golden bronze. John was, John was beautiful, like a statue, athletic and strong and handsome and rugged and everything that Sherlock was not.

Sherlock bit his lip, drawing his knees to his chest as he watched the sky, the last flickering stars fading in the murky blue, the salty fog of the sea settling on his skin. The world was awakening, the first lights of day beginning to glow through the swaying leaves of trees. The birds had been chirping for a few hours now, and their songs only grew sweeter. His fingers found their way to the mark on his neck, it stung a bit still, but it's colour had faded to a dusty rose. 

Somehow, somehow he didn't mind it. Somewhere inside of him was glowing with warm, golden pride at that mark, as if a way to prove that he was wanted. 

He wasn't a failure, not completely. 

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and exhaled, shaking his head, curls tickling at his ears. _No! No! Stop it, stop it, this isn't like you, stop it! Don't let them tame you._ This was the flood of horrific chemicals in his bloodstream talking. Fuck John, fuck John and his fucking teeth and his fucking cock and his fucking legs. 

He was starting to not even make sense to himself anymore. The door to their room creaked open, and his chin whipped around to see who it was. Marie jumped when he saw her, but her shock faded into a sweet smile. 

"Je t'ai apporté le petit déjeuner," (I brought breakfast for you) She handed him a tray, and he politely nodded. 

"Merci, Marie," He mumbled, and she pat his head before toddling off. He watched her go, the knob clicking shut behind her. He looked down at the food, depositing it on the floor before he saw the corner of the envelope that stuck out beneath the plate. 

_Sherlock Watson_

Sherlock eyed John, who was sprawled out, quite asleep and let out a good snort before stirring, flopping over onto his tummy and huffing. Sherlock looked back down to the letter, reading the return adress.

_Rudolph Holmes_

_46 rue La Boétie, Paris_

He ripped open the letter faster than a kiddie on Christmas, pulling out the pages, eyes flickering down as if he were watching a tennis match. 

_10 May 1939_

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_Oh my dear chap, you cannot imagine the joy I feel in writing you, my most favourite nephew, on such an occasion as your wedding. I'm so very sorry I couldn't attend, you've every reason to be terribly cross with me. In fact, be cross with me, give me a jolly good tongue lashing when we see each other again, Sherlockian as you like._

_I hope you are enjoying my little house in the south, and I hope Marie is spoiling you two horribly. She's a very old friend, and I expect you to love her dearly, because you've got no good reason not to. The house is yours to keep, old chap, take good care of it for me, in fact, the papers are next thing for me to pen after this letter, so I must get on with it!_

_Oh, Sherlock, I don't know this man you've elected to wed, but your dear brother tells me he's a good one. An army captain, and a doctor? My my, you lucky boy! Do get on with it and make me some more little nephews to dote on, my Augusta would be so pleased as well._

_Your papa would be so proud of you, Locky, so very proud indeed. Before he died, he would always write me and tell me about his boys, and don't tell Mycroft, but I do think you'd have always been his favourite._

_Things are getting rather tense in the world, dear boy, and you must be strong! I'm sending you all of my love, to you and to John, so jolly well send it back._

_Your favourite uncle,_

_Rudy_

Sherlock smiled, setting the letter down neatly on the floor before sneaking over to bed. The mattress screeched as he crawled atop it, after 4 straight days of, well, you know, the bed seemed to have broken somehow, and had become rather creaky. John's eyes fluttered open against the pillow, his mouth resting in a puddle of spit. He smiled at the icy eyes and midnight locks that stared down at him and he rolled over onto his back, quite chuffed with himself. 

"Good morning, gorgeous," John yawned, opening his arms wide, and Sherlock immediately crawled into them, curling up against his chest, and John's eyes closed again. Sherlock curled a few of John's chest hairs in his fingers, face awash with shame- the silence ringing in his ears. 

"What am I gonna do, John?" The omega whispered, his voice timid and small and John's skin paled.

"You mean about-"

"a baby, John," Sherlock finished for him, sitting up and putting a hand on his stomach before realizing he'd done that, his hand snapping back to hold his knees, his throat filling with bile. 

"What is there to do about it, Sherlock?" John said plainly, reaching out to tuck a single dark lock behind his husband's ear. Sherlock sat back even further, shaking his head and pushing John away. 

"Don't touch me, John, don't ever touch me again!" He hissed, his eyes welling with tears, his cheeks flushing with crimson. John's teeth grit in frustration but he obligingly put his hands back down, sitting up and glowering at his mate- who was now sniffling with pathetic tears. 

"You're my mate, Sherlock, I have to touch you at some point!" John groaned, scrubbing his chin and trying to maintain his cool. 

"Oh here it starts," Sherlock spat, "do this, omega, do that, omega."

"It's not like that, Sherlock," John said slowly, dangerously, "You know me well enough to know that I'm not like that."

"Well I don't know you! I don't. You purchased me, and now you own me, but I don't know you at all!" Sherlock cried, crawling backwards. John growled even more.

"Shut up, Sherlock, that's not fair,"

"And now, and now I could be _pregnant_ , only because _you_ wanted me to be. Wanted to tame me, saddle me, force me into your broodmare. I have no control over my own body! And I hate it! _I hate you!_ " 

John's eyes went dark. Deep dark pits of anger, storm clouds hazing their brilliant blue, and Sherlock shivered. John was reeking of alpha, and it was frightening. This wasn't John, this was someone else. Sherlock whimpered, slowly backing away, the mattress creaking. He moved to step off the bed but John was faster. He grabbed him by both arms and shoved Sherlock to the ground, his head hitting the floor with a thud, the world going dizzy for a moment as John seethed on top of him. 

"John! John I'm-"

John put a hand over his mouth and dragged him over to the armchair, sitting and pulling a whimpering, struggling Sherlock over his knee. He slapped his hand down across Sherlock's arse, placing his arm across his back to hold the squirming boy down. Sherlock whined and kicked and John gave him a warning swat across his thighs, a brutal red welt rising in his wake.

"You," John seethed, his voice at least an octave lower, teeth glimering and nostrils flaring, "will _not_ speak of me that way. ever. again." He slapped his arse harsher, his own palm begining to sting something nasty. Sherlock shrieked, sobbing, trembling, his chest pressed tight against John's thigh. His eyes glistened with tears that spilt over down his cheeks, and John spanked him again and again, the sharp slaps echoing through the room. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Y-yes, John,"

"Your body belongs to me, Sherlock, if I say we have children, we will."

Sherlock weakly sobbed, his head thrown forward between his shoulders, his fingers barely grasping at the floor, not even trying to hold himself up through the pain.

"Good, because you are _my_ husband, and _my_ omega, and you _will_ obey me." John grunted, patting soft across Sherlock's burning buttocks. He let a blubbering Sherlock up, who barely rose beforehe took one look in his eyes and took off running, grabbing clothes and rushing into the bath, closing and locking the door. 

John scrubbed his face and leaned on his knees. He was the Alpha, it was his right to punish Sherlock for this. Keeping the wife and pups in line was an Alpha's job. Right?

John wanted to punch himself with his justifications, Jesus, he sounded like his father. John shuddered at the thought, suddenly feeling quite sick. _Nothing_ could justify hitting Sherlock. He knew that. Fucking hell, he was so angry. He growled, fist clenching at his sides, and he hung his head in a deep low breath. 

* * *

_"John, go grab a hairbrush," The Major had leered in his gravely low voice, his beard yellowed with smoke and his breath reeking of alcohol. Mummy was crying, and The Major was holding her arm. A tiny John only furrowed his brows._

_"Why, sir?"_

_"Hamish, he's a child, couldn't we do this somewhere more priv-"_

_The Major slapped her._

_"Just fetch it son, don't be all day about it."_

_John slowly climbed the stairs, dread knotting in his tummy. Mummy had burnt dinner, and now The Major was angry, even angrier than when John got ink all over the carpet. He padded down the hall, past his and Harry's room, to his parent's room, where mum's antique hairbrush sat atop her vanity. John swallowed and clutched it in his hands as he made his way downstairs, the engraved metal cold in his fingers. Harry's eyes followed him the entire way from her spot at the kitchen table. The Major smiled and held out his hand._

_"Good lad, now hand it over,"_

_"But you're gonna hit mummy," John whispered, clutching it tight, lip pulled between his teeth._

_"I said hand it over, son,"_

_John shook his head and backed away, looking to Harry for help. She looked away. He swallowed and held the hairbrush behind his back._

_"Now, son, or there will be consequences."_

_John refused to let go. The Major growled and grabbed John by the collar of his jumper, pulling him into the air. Mummy gasped and John shrieked, kicking his feet._

_"Put me down! Let go!" John cried, and The Major only glared darkly into his eyes. The first slap was such a shock, he barely felt the sting. The second hurt even more. John grabbed his face and whined, the hairbrush clattering to the floor. John wriggled and growled, and his father flung him to the ground, his face hitting the kitchen tiles, bruises sure to form there._

_"Go to your room, I'll deal with you later," The Major snarled, and John picked himself up from the floor, his heart glowing with anger. This wasn't right. He looked to his mummy, who gave him a solemn nod. He turned and climbed the stairs, just reaching the fourth step when he heard his mother wail._

* * *

Sherlock bit his knuckles, eyes closed, pressed into the corner of the washroom, ducked under the washbasin and curled into a ball. Sobs wracked through his body but he couldn't make any noise. He was so fucking weak. _You're a failure, Sherlock, you let them win._

"Sherlock? Darling, please let me in," John sighed, leaning against the cool wooden door. Sherlock whimpered and curled tighter. "Love, I'm so so sorry, please forgive me, Sherlock," John closed his eyes and awkwardly tucked his hands into his pockets.

Sherlock didn't reply. 

"Sherlock, please, we need to talk." 

Silence. John sighed and shook his head, hating himself for doing this, but he said it anyway.

"Open the door. _Now_." 

Sherlock squeaked, cursing his bloody omega for his stupidity, and slowly made his way across the tiled floor, clicking open the lock and crawling back to his spot. John pushed open the door, almost gagging at the scent of an omega in distress- fear and anxiety that seeped into his skin. He felt like the worst man in the world. Sherlock refused to look at him, so John sat, back against the claw foot tub, hands clasped in front of his knees. 

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, eyes saucers as he looked over his arms, "I- I didn't mean it, I don't hate you. Not at all." John's lips quirked, but he nodded. 

"That's good, Sherlock, but you really don't need to be sorry. I let myself fall to baser instincts, and that was wrong of me."

"You did what you're supposed to do,"

Silence. 

"I'm so sorry Sherlock, for all of it. I was wrong to say you don't get to decide when we do these things, because you do, it's your body too, love."

Sherlock turned around, the distance between them feeling like a million miles instead of a metre. His eyes were lined with fresh tears, and John's heart sank. Sherlock bit his lip before crawling across the floor on wobbly hands and knees and falling into John's shoulder, the Alpha instantly wrapping arms around his shivering form. 

"J-Jawn," Sherlock sobbed, nose tucked into John's neck, his chest heaving. John only shushed him, pulling him onto his lap and rubbing his back. 

"It's alright love, I'm right here," John soothed as Sherlock cried with such intensity, he was choking on his sobs, uncontrollably hiccuping. 

"I didn't mean what I said, about maybe being-" Sherlock managed to whisper through his tears, and John sighed, pulling him in tighter and rocking them both back and forth. 

John smiled sadly, "You're not ready for pups, love,"

"But, if I am, I want it, I want this, because," Sherlock furrowed his brows, unsure of what to say, the words tripping up inside of his chest. He sucked in a breath and collapsed his head into John's shoulder. "because you want it, and I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me what you think bc I really did not enjoy writing this chapter, and I've proof read it like four times and I'm still not happy with it bleh


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: ive never been married, but i imagine it can be rocky at the start

29 May 1939

Martha Hudson had never been blessed with children of her own. She'd been close once, and knitted her heart away making baby clothes. It didn't take long before they all went into the missionary barrel. The elderly beta looked down into her tea, a single tear adding a hint of salt to the sweet amber liquid. She sniffled and stiffened her upper lip, placing the cup and saucer to the side for a moment. She leaned over and turned up the dial on the wireless before toddling over to start the dishes. 

Her hips moved to side to side, imagining the foxtrot with a handsome suitor, back in her glory days. Back when there were tea gowns and oil lamps and carriages not cars. She sighed and hummed along, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn mixing bowl when she heard the knocker of the door slam closed. She gasped and clapped her hands together before rushing to meet the men at the door. A golden Alpha with armfuls of suitcases stood in her doorway, and she let out a coo before rushing to meet him. 

"John! Oh, you look so tan!" She cried, clasping onto his arm and giving him a shake, "Let me help you with those cases," 

"No, I can manage, why don't you go say hi to Sherlock, he's a bit knackered from the flight." John looked over his shoulder, smirking at the passed out omega in the taxi. Mrs. Hudson immediately ignored him the second he saw Sherlock, rushing to fuss over her new charge. John smiled and continued up the stairs, lungs full of hearty london air, just the faintest hints of smoke, _home._

"Sherlock, dearie, wake up," Mrs. Hudson shook the curly haired boy awake, and he jumped, icy blue eyes wide and searching, and Mrs. H gasped, "I'm Mrs. Hudson, dear, come on inside and lets get you a cuppa,"

"I'm alright," Sherlock rubbed his eyes and stepped onto the pavement, but the sweet woman ignored him, gripping him arm in arm and pulling him along. He let her guide him into the downstairs flat, sitting him into wooden dining chair and flicking on the hob to put the kettle on.

"John's told me all about you, love, there was that month he wouldn't talk about anything else," Mrs. Hudson muttered as she set out three mugs for builders. "He called you the prettiest omega in the world. And here I thought he was exaggerating!" She smiled, and Sherlock only nodded, feeling awfully fussed after. A few minutes passed and kettle whistled, and soon a warm mug was in Sherlock's fingers, and a kiss on his forehead. She smelled like warm biscuits and vintage perfume, and her scent lingered inside of him.

"Thanks," Sherlock said softly, looking up at the gingery blonde woman with velvety skin and a smile that never seemed to fade, even when she didn't think he was looking. Sherlock found her inexplicably easy to trust. She was divorced, _no, widowed_ , american husband, english born. 

"Y'know my husband was a solider too,"

"Spanish American War?"

"Oh! How'd you know?" She looked worriedly at him, her hands shaking slightly. Interesting. 

"It's not important. What was he like, _Mr._ Hudson?" Sherlock looked up, his eyes glowing with seriousness, and something passed between them, a silent shared solidarity. Beta females and omegas weren't so different, he thought.

"He," She paused, "Well, he's dead now, best not to dwell on the past, if you stay there, it'll eat you up, that's what I say,"

"Amen, Mrs. H," John smiled, leaning on the top of the refrigerator. She cooed and planted a kiss on his cheek. 

"Oh, you only say that to placate me, now sit here and have some tea and tell me all about your holiday,"

* * *

After an hour or so, John excused them both, putting his arm around his shy mate, who'd barely spoken a word the whole time, leading him back up the creaking stairs. 

"I suppose you know the way, but I thought a formal tour was in order," John marched up the steps, Sherlock following, eyes memorizing every detail of the victorian wall paper, fingers tracing the banister lightly. "This is the sitting room, there's the kitchen, our room's down the hall, bathroom, two rooms upstairs, and Mrs. Hudson's flat and the cafe below." Sherlock looked around the dark, musty, masculine flat, loving every inch. This wasn't a house, not like Mycroft and Greg's house. This was a home. 

"It's lovely, John,"

"I guess we could spruce it up, make it a bit more, feminine for you, if you wanted," John scratched his neck and looked over at Sherlock, who stood by the mantle, tracing the wood with earnest. 

"No!" Sherlock said quickly, looking up at John with wide, desperate eyes, "Don't change it at all, I love it," John smirked and stepped forward, eyes swirling and dark. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle and planted a kiss to the side of his neck, lips ghosting the pale pink mark there. 

"I love you, Sherlock, more than the world," John whispered into his curls, reaching up to card fingers through the velvety strands, a shiver running down the omega's spine. Sherlock smiled and leaned forward, his forehead against John's shoulder. 

"I don't want you to go, Jawn," He said softly. John nodded and rest his chin atop Sherlock's head, sighing. 

"I know."

"You might not come back," Sherlock whispered, fingers griping into John's suit jacket as if he might disappear right then and there. 

"I will always come back, darling, I promise."

"That's a pie crust promise."

"Sorry?" John smiled sadly and looked down at Sherlock's pale cheeks, which sported a sweet sprinkling of freckles. 

"Easily made, easily broken."

Silence. 

"I don't want to go back to him." Sherlock looked up, eyes wide and glistening with tears. _Mycroft._

"You wouldn't, Sherlock, even if, something should happen, you'd stay here, with Mrs. H,"

"I want you to stay, Jawn," He paused, "I wouldn't survive John, I _wouldn't_ ,"

"Sherlock. I have to, when I'm called, I have to go." Sherlock let go and turned to look out the window, arms crossed, looking at his shoes. "It's bigger than just me."

"I don't understand!" Sherlock whined, throwing his head back, "Do you have a death wish or something? They'll send you to Poland, to Germany,do you know what the chances of you surviving that are?!"

"Sherlock, this is bigger than me! I've sworn allegiance to my country, to my King, and that comes before anything. Even you. Now stop being such a child!" 

"I'm not a child!" Sherlock seethed, turning on his heel, hands clenched into fists, his cheeks flushed with anger. "I love you, you idiot! And I don't love anybody else. Doesn't that matter to you?!" He pressed his palms against John's chest. John glared at him and grabbed his wrists, holding them tight in his dry, callused hands, Sherlock wriggling beneath them, lips pressed together in a pout. 

"You are a child, you most certainly act like one. And yeah, of course you bloody well matter to me. I married you! I bonded with you. I love you so, so very much. But I love my country too, Sherlock, and it has to come first. If you weren't so bloody immature you'd understand!" 

"You're an idiot," Sherlock growled

"Oh that's trite. Grow up, Sherlock," John pulled his coat over his shoulders and Sherlock scowled, flopping into an armchair. 

"Where are you going?"

"Out. Help Mrs. H with dinner and don't wait up."

Sherlock bit his lip hard, flinching at each thud of John's feet down the stairs. The front door slammed shut, reverberating through the floor. Sherlock pulled his feet up onto the smooth leather, hugging his knees to his chest. He wasn't crying. He wasn't. 

"Hoo hoo," A head popped in through the door, "You two have a little domestic?" Sherlock shrugged his shoulder and Mrs. H sighed. 

"I'm supposed to help you with dinner," Sherlock mumbled and Mrs. H clapped her hands together excitedly. 

* * *

Esther Smith gripped tight to the pudgy hand of her son, her daughter securely on her hip. She shakily inhaled the night air, her hands shaking slightly. Arthur was passed out on the sofa, sated and drunk, but he wouldn't be asleep for long.

"Mummy, I'm sleepy," William whimpered, burrowing his face into her skirt. 

"Shh, we can sleep soon, sweetheart, be very, very quiet, and you can have some sweets," She knelt, looking into his innocent blue eyes. He nodded mutely and she pulled his hand along, her heels clacking against the cobblestone pavement, heart beating like a drum in her ears, bond bite aching on her neck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so bloody short! thank you for reading <3
> 
> also, there will be a case next chapter!!! so yay


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning!!! graphic descriptions of a crime scene and a medical emergency
> 
> also fun fact if you inject a bunny with pregnant urine they go into heat. i hope my dad never sees my search history lol

Sherlock did, in fact, wait up. His microscope had found it's new place on the kitchen bench, and Sherlock found his place behind it. He had a... _problem_ to solve. His chemistry book had long become obsolete, so Sherlock was forced to learn the individual properties of Mrs. H's cleaning products on his own, his anatomy and biology books stacked, a few of John's medical journals leafed open on the table around him. He really didn't realize how much time had gone by, his stomach aggravatingly full. 

He rubbed his hand along it, suddenly his heart racing. He wasn't sure. He wouldn't be sure for weeks, and only then, he'd need a doctor to examine his...he shuddered, crossing his legs and adjusting the lenses.

He could probably fashion some sort of chemical mixture with these supplies to make sure any fetus would flush out of his system, that wasn't the problem but his omega _did_ not like that idea. Honestly, why was he trying to know? Even if he did, it would be very hard to convince himself to go through with it if he was indeed...he shivered... _pregnant._

Unless...

"Mrs. Hudson! I need a rabbit!" 

* * *

"Sherlock, I really don't like this, she's such a cute little thing," Mrs. Hudson cooed and booped the bunny's wriggling nose, speaking in a high pitched baby voice, "I'll go get you a carrot, sweetheart."

"Cabbage, and her name is Bluebell. but it's not important."

"Where did you even find her?"

"Neighbor's garden."

"Oh dear! Sherlock! What if she dies?"

"She won't die, Mrs. Hudson, just ovulate, and then it's back to your hutch." Sherlock swirled the jar of his urine and Mrs. H furrowed her brows, a bit unsettled by seeing that so early in the morning. 

"Sherlock, why don't you wait for John to come home," She mumbled as Sherlock held the bunny down with one hand, popping the cap off the needle and holding it between his teeth. "It's 5:30, love, I'm sure he'll be back soon."

Sherlock glared and turned, checking the clock for himself. It was indeed 5:30. When did that happen? He looked to the windows, which were indeed billowing with dusty warm light. Shit, John hadn't come home? At 5:30 in the morning? The syringe hid the frown that fought at the corners of his mouth. He shook his head and pulled the plunger syringe up in his urine sample, before finding a suitable patch in her ivory fur, estimating the muscle structure beneath and injecting quickly and cleanly, ignoring the little wriggle beneath his hand. Mrs. H put a hand over her mouth and gasped and Sherlock gave Bluebell a pat.

"And now, we wait," Sherlock said softly, excited to have a real experiment to run, but quite apprehensive to the results. He snapped off his gloves and held the shivering thing close to his chest, feeling quite nurturing. "I think we'll have that cabbage now,"

* * *

John sighed, checking his watch as he made his way up the pavement. Stamford hadn't minded him on the sofa, if only sharing some sort of sympathy, as if Sherlock had sent him to the dog house. His watch read 9:45. He approached the door, taking deep breaths, ready as he'd be to deal with a sulking and pouty omega after their fight. 

He accented the stairs to hear shuffles and shouts, both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, pausing midway, frowning at the upset omega pheromones that met him. His boy was displeased it seemed, hopefully he'd be in a good mood when he saw John. 

John was about to make his way into the top when a white ball of fur ran through his ankles, yowling and scratching at his trousers. Jesus Christ! He almost took a tumble before gathering himself, only to meet the rest of the parade, Mrs. H calling after the creature and Sherlock following, eyes wild and blazing emerald. 

"John! Oh, hello! Help us catch her!" Mrs. Hudson smiled, and John looked quizzically at Sherlock, who froze when their eyes met, paling as if he'd seen a ghost. John swallowed, his eyes melting with a dark blue softness.

"Sherlock, darling, I'm so sorry about last night," John started, but Sherlock ran past him, mumbling about the neighbors and Cassidy, Kirsten? something like that. John turned around quickly, watching sadly as his mate avoided his eyes, following after the chase. 

"Wait, Sherlock, come back, we need to talk,"

"No! No we don't need to talk!" Sherlock shouted quickly before pulling his lip between his teeth, face crumpling into a scowl before he continued down, his omega _screaming_ at him to turn around. 

_Pregnant! We're pregnant! He's the father and he's safe, go back!_

He hushed it. Bluebell was back in the housekeepers arms a few moments later, wriggling and writhing and mewling, nipping at Mrs. H's fingers, much to everyone's surprise. Rabbits were usually quiet. John descended the stairs to the small congregation at the base of the banister, eyes on Sherlock, who looked white as a sheet. John's nose twitched, and he approached the rabbit and took a whiff, standing back and widening his eyes. Shit, that was a heat alright. Not attractive to his nose, and rightly so, but potent enough that there might be dozens more rabbits before long. 

"What's the meaning of this?" John said, hands on his hips. Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth with a smile, but Sherlock cut her off, his voice cold and emotionless and remote.

"Experiment. Gone wrong. I'll be upstairs." 

John watched as Sherlock huffed up the stairs, and he swore he saw him wipe his eyes before turning to discuss the randy bunny with his housekeeper.

* * *

"Sherlock, is everything alright?" John said sweetly, reaching down to rub into his mate's shoulders as he hunched over his microscope, books in a heap around him. Sherlock went stiff beneath him, delicate fingers shaking as he replaced a slide. 

"Fine,"

"You don't seem fine, darling," John pressed a kiss to his bond bite. "I'm sorry I ran off last night, I- I was upset, and I needed to cool off."

"I didn't mind." Sherlock snapped, voice icy and aloof, engrossed in his experiments. John's heart sank in his chest, dropping his hands from his lover's shoulders and stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

"Right. Did you have breakfast?"

"Yes." Sherlock lied. 

"Good, well, I- uh, I have some things to work on, I'll be at my desk, if you need me," John said awkwardly, feeling quite gratuitous. Sherlock made a hum in response, and the moment John was in the sitting room, Sherlock turned and climbed the stairs to the extra rooms, a door slamming behind him. 

John licked his lips, it was so wrong, he didn't understand why Sherlock was so upset! Sure they'd had a fight, but he was quite sure that wasn't it. This was something new. It made him sick thinking Sherlock was upset with him and he didn't know why. 

* * *

The room upstairs was dusty, and Sherlock cried and cried, sitting his back against the wrought iron frame of one of the small twin beds inside. A nursery. He looked through blurring tears to the rocking horse by the window, the dresser with a stack of children's books. Well furnished for a _bachelor's flat._ Sherlock growled, suddenly quite angry with the pale blue floral wall paper, with it's feminine cornflower pattern. 

A sob wracked through Sherlock's body, his arms wrapped around his tummy. His eyes pressed closed and he breathed out swiftly through his nose. 

He couldn't have this. No, he wouldn't do it. He wasn't ready. He didn't believe in God, and he really didn't think it was murder. The _thing_ in his tummy wasn't a person, not really. His eyes blurred with a fresh glaze of sadness before he stood, shakily, but he made it to his feet, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, voices in his head louder than ever. Mycroft, always Mycroft, or his mother. 

_Stop crying! You runt, now get up and pull yourself together._

Sherlock's eyes dried, his mask slowly coming back, cool and collected and unfeeling. He was getting better and better at it, and soon he hoped he might never feel anything again. 

* * *

"What are you working on, dear?" Mrs. Hudson said, a batch of biscuits in her mitted hands. Sherlock was fumbling through her cleaning things beneath the sink, and he only mumbled a reply. "If something's dirty, I can help," She offered, but he only stormed out of her flat, a few bottles in his arms. He was a queer one, that's for sure.

Sherlock deposited the bottles on the bench, breath tight in his lungs. John seemed oblivious, looking over, bills? Oh what did it matter, Sherlock got to work. Noxious fumes soon were wafting through the kitchen as Sherlock got to work, using his cigarette lighter for some of the tricky solvents. John looked up after hours passed, eyebrows scrunched together. 

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Sherlock that doesn't look very safe,"

"Ah, indeed," Sherlock mumbled, swirling around his final product. John only grumbled, not wanting to push things with his stroppy husband.

"So what is it?"

"What?" Sherlock looked over, oblivious, he looked nervous, his curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. 

"Whatever you've been working on for last few hours?"

"Um, cleaning products. Mrs. Hudson's teaching me," John smiled and nodded at that answer, seemingly pleased with Sherlock's newfound domesticity. He looked down at his newspaper and sighed, huffing about with his crossword. 

"Be careful, love, just in case there's two of you," John mumbled, not even thinking about it, his face flushing when he realized what he'd slipped. The air filled with tension, and Sherlock got up, dressing gown swinging around him as he stomped into his room. John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, feeling horrible inside. 

* * *

"Sherlock," John knocked at the door, a few more hours passed. "Sherlock, I've got to come in, it's time for bed," There was a shuffle behind the door and John sighed. "Please, darling, tell me what the matter is,"

Silence. 

"Right, well, I'm coming in now," John paused, waiting for a reply, receiving none. He turned the knob and pushed the door forward, feeling a lumpy resistance in the way. He pushed it far enough to poke his head through the opening, eyes widening at what he found. Sherlock lay on the ground, groaning, covered in sweat. His skin was ghastly and his hair hung in sweaty patches around his face.

"Sherlock! Christ, Sherlock!" He fell to his knees next to his mate, pulling him up and putting a hand to his forehead, "You're burning up, darling," Sherlock clenched his fist around the empty vial, groaning at sharp pains in his stumach. John pulled his lover into his arms, navigating him to the bed, but stopping when he saw the back of Sherlock's trousers.

"Sherlock, you're bleeding!" Sherlock only keened, drowsily leaning his forehead onto John's shoulder. "Alright, that's it, we're going to hospital,"

"NO!" Sherlock cried, bleary cheeks glistening with tears, "No hospitals, no doctors, just you," John's eyes widened, but he tested Sherlock's pulse by reflex, it was a bit quick. 

"Alright, alright, calm down, darling, but if I can't treat you, we _are_ going to hospital," John tugged off Sherlock's trousers and pants, which were soaked with blood, "Sherlock let's get to the toilet," He guided the blubbering boy into the loo and pulled to the toilet, his legs now dripping with crimson rivulets. It sent John's tummy lurching, he could smell Sherlock's fear, as well as the putrid smell of an omega's blood. Sherlock cried out, gripping for John. 

"Jawn, help me, I was, I was..." He whimpered, tugging onto his alpha's sleeves, needing his touch like water in a desert. 

"What was that darling? You were- what Sherlock?" John looked quizzically to his lover, who keened, a second wave of blood and tissue pouring out of him. John gasped, his heart racing in his chest in realisation, "Pregnant, you're pregnant,"

Sherlock shook his head, his throat burning and his nose running horribly, tears continuing to flow down his cheeks in rivers. John's heart clenched, his lungs suddenly devoid of air.

"You were pregnant," He whispered, "But you aren't anymore,"

Sherlock choked out a sob, reaching for his lover as his entire bottom half burned and he felt like he might very well be dying. He leaned forward, head leaning on the cool of the sink, forehead dripping with sweat. 

"Sherlock, did you know?" Sherlock nodded meekly. "You knew?!" John shouted, his face turned into a horrible mix of anger and grief and surprise that sent even more twist into his gut.

"Y-yes Jawn," Sherlock croaked, and John clenched his hands into fists. 

"You knew, and you still did those fucking experiments?" Sherlock wept, his shoulders shuddering, his fingers still tight around John's rolled up sleeves. 

"Jaawn!" He cried, eyes shut, "Jawn it hurts! It really _fucking_ hurts," John's heart was plummeting in his chest, gripping to Sherlock's sides, trying to help. 

"Darling, darling, you need to let it come out, it's the womb lining and," He paused, throat dry and craggly, tongue heavy in his mouth, "and the baby, you just need to bear it, love, it'll be over soon, be strong for me, darling,"

Sherlock mewled, gripping tight and pressing his eyes closed, "I didn't want this, I didn't, why did I- I wanted it, I wanted us, you and me, I wanted it, but I did this, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Jawn,"

"Shh, darling, we can talk about this later, just, hold onto me and take a deep breaths, you're almost done, you'll be alright, you're so good, Sherlock, you're mine, and you're alright, you're safe with me, darling, it'll all be alright soon..."

* * *

Greg swallowed a knot in his throat. This wasn't his first crime scene, not by far. But something about this one...something sent his stomach into a flop like nothing before. The first victim was young, so young, 20 or so at most, and she was mauled horribly, legs and arms covered in viscous crimson gashes, neck snapped to the side, ginger hair plastered with blood to her face, eyes open and wide in frozen fear. Greg closed his eyes for a moment, trying to soothe his nerves before turning to the second and third. A little boy, blonde hair matted with dried blood, left arm snapped backwards, clothes ripped to shreds, his stomach ripped clearly through, guts spilled onto the vibrant spring grass. How such revolting gore could exist in such a beautiful country setting, wildflowers blooming and birds chirping, it was dichotomous and made it even more vile.

The third victim was hardly a year old, a baby, lying on it's front, half covered by a bloody blanket. Greg knelt and watched as his boss asked a few locals questions, a woman shaking her head and crying into his handkercheif. Greg unlocked his eyes and looked back to the child. So young, and killed so brutally. It was the stuff of nightmares. 

Suddenly, the blanket stirred, a soft whining filling the country air. Greg immediately pulled it back, and gasped, leaning down and checking the baby's heartbeat. 

"Boss! She's alive, sir, call an ambulance!" Greg examined her wounds, which upon further inspections weren't as deep as the others, and were still plushing with scarlet. He ripped off his scarf and wrapped it around her middle to apply pressure, pulling her into his arms, as nothing appeared broken. She let out a solid cry now, coming into consciousness. 

"Shh, sweetheart, it's alright, it's your uncle Greg and we're gonna get you looked after, princess," He lulled, but she only cried and cried, she wanted mummy! Greg rocked as best he could, shouting over her shoulder "I said call an ambulance! Now!"

* * *

Sherlock was passed out and tucked into bed, hydrated and cleaned up when the phone rang. John glared to the sitting room as he sat on Sherlock's bed watching him to make sure he was okay. He grumbled before stomping over to the phone and picking it up in a huff, angry and protective of Sherlock's much needed rest. 

"Who is this?"

"John! It's Greg, I- uh, I need to talk to Sherlock,"

"He's uh- he's ill, I can tell him you called," John shifted on his hips and adjusted the mouthpiece under his chin, pulling the cord and moving to the kitchen to make Sherlock some tea. 

"Um, actually, I probably should talk to you first," John furrowed his brows and hmmed.

"Well go on, then, I've got a sick omega here,"

"Sorry, right, um, when Sherlock's better, I wondered if he could come help us out, the Yard, that is, you know what he's like, he sees what kind of cigarettes you fancy use based on your shoelaces, it's just, no witnesses, omega and her pup killed, it looks like some sort of animal attack, my boss thinks it was an accident, but I just have this wretched feeling about it, I just, thought, well, Sherlock might be able to help,"

John sighed, resting his hand against the bench and straightening the phone in his hand and rubbing his forehead. 

"I don't know, Greg,"

"He wouldn't be in any danger, I just want him to take a look, I'll have him back in one piece, I promise, John," 

"Right, alright, I'll ask Sherlock when he's better," 

"Thanks, mate, and I promise, just a look round and straight home,"

"Alright, yes, I'll see you later Greg,"

"Bye John!" John slung the phone back in it's cradle and set about taking care of the whistling kettle and a very ill omega. His left hand twitched like mad, and he bit his lip hard to keep out the growl inside of him. He was a doctor, he knew that Sherlock could only be about a month along...but still, his child was gone. He might not want children yet, but he sure as hell didn't want this. 

He slammed a fist to the bench and his eyes welled with tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i need to stop pulling all-nighters to write. ha ha just kidding kind of, tell me what you think lovely people!


	23. Chapter 23

30 May 1939

Sherlock stirred, eyes fluttering open as he awoke, coming to inside a cocoon of warm bronzed skin. He poked his head up, curls flopping about as he looked down at his Alpha, who was quite asleep, dark circles beneath his eyes and a weary stubble on his chin. _Worried._ Worried about what? Sherlock nestled back into John's warmth, tucking his nose into his neck and gulping down deep breaths of his strong and protective scent, and for maybe the first time in his life, he felt well and truly safe. 

John didn't sleep heavily, and Sherlock's rustling about had awoken him. He smiled and wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock's pale milky waist, palms rubbing a circle along his flank, his back pressed to John's chest. 

"Hi Dr Watson," Sherlock said sweetly, his lips turned into a smile, eyes closed delicately. 

"Hello, Mr. Watson," John smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and sucking in a lungful of his sweet honeying pheremones. "Are you feeling better, darling?"

"Yes, Jawn," Sherlock whispered, pressing back into John's chest, pulling his arm up to hold to his own chest, examining each strong finger with intent. He placed John's dry rough palm agianst his tummy, heart fluttering with guilt and sadness and he turned to look at John, icy grey eyes lined with tears. "I'm sorry,"

"It's alright, Sherlock, it was an accident." He said gently into his ear, rubbing a circle into the soft skin of Sherlock's front. Sherlock's throat caught with a sob, but he only nodded.

"Yeah, an accident."

"Your brother-in-law called last night, darling," 

"Oh?" Sherlock tried not to sound too excited to hear from Lestrade, as he was linked to Mycroft and that could only lead to disaster. 

"He needs your help, their was a murder in Dartmoor, he's asked you to come," Sherlock gasped and sat up straight, eyes glowing bright, cheeks flushed with excitement. 

"Lestrade wants _my_ help, with a _murder_?"

"Only if you want to, darling, and only if you feel up to it,"

"A murder!" Sherlock squealed and John rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss to his cheek and clambering out of their four-post bed. 

"I adore you, Sherlock, but maybe try not to sound so excited."

* * *

Sherlock dressed as John showered, his favourite blue pan-collared shirt and black trousers, blue socks and black wingtips, tying the delicate laces with shivering fingers, his tummy wrenching in pain. He clenched his teeth and laboured through. Mycroft had sent his vanity from his old room, and it's feminine floral design looked so out of place, it's large oval mirror almost mocking him and his washed out skin. He sat at the stool and set about his routine, placing a few dots of sunscreen on his skin, combing through his curls and trying to make them look decent. 

He looked down to his hands, and the silver ring that stared up at him. How such a small little piece of silver could mean so much- a bonded omega was, in some sense, freer than an unbonded one, he could travel alone, go to work, go to the shops, all without supervision, as long as John had given his approval. But yet, he was still _bound_ , forever, to John, under him, less than him. He'd be cooking dinners and cleaning house and nursing pups all his life. 

He let out his breath and looked himself in the mirror. He looked, different. Older than before. 

"Ready, love?" John smiled in the mirror and Sherlock nodded. They made their way out of the flat, hand in hand, fingers interlaced as they approached the pavement. John hailed a cab and they made their way to the train station, thighs touching subtly, John's hand clenched around his, rubbing a circle there every so often, as if his mind were wandering and finding it's focus once again on their interlocked fingers.

At Paddington, John bought a newspaper, and Sherlock stood on the platform, hands tucked into his pockets, watching the people that milled about the station. A businessman shuffled past him, tipping his hat. Sometimes Sherlock could pass for a beta, but not with his hair grown out like this, down past his ears. 

An omega stood on the platform excitedly as the train pulled in, a cloud steam around her ankles, her tummy large under her dress. She stood on the toes of her kitten heels, and she clutched her handbag with one hand, cupping the top of her stomach with the other, watching as each went by. When the train stopped, a tall blond man leapt out of the carriage and rushed over to her, hands resting on the sides of her stomach as he pulled her in for a kiss, fingers brushing through her caramel brown hair, pulling back and grinning before talking to her stomach.

Sherlock's stomach turned, guilt churning inside of him. _John thought it was an accident._

"I- I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said awkwardly, right hand clenched into a fist by his side, eyes awash with shame. John only gave him an affirming squeeze and shook his head, guiding Sherlock's knuckles to his lips and pressing soft kisses to them. 

"Shh," John mumbled into the soft warm skin, eyes inspecting every bony joint with care, as if he were memorizing it. He rubbed a firm circle into Sherlock's palm and looked over to his omega, eyes swirling blue like choppy sea. "We'll have them when we're ready, love, both of us."

"But, Jawn, I-" John shook his head and continued his kisses to the other hand. 

"You're not ready, love, neither am I," Sherlock looked over incredulously as John pulled them up to the carriage, guiding Sherlock in first, down the little corridor and into their seats. Sherlock grasped him by the sleeve and John obliged, sliding in next to Sherlock and putting his hand on his knee. Sherlock watched sadly as the omega and her husband walked hand in hand off the platform. Why he was so fixated on them, he didn't know. He didn't even want kids. He looked over slowly to John, who no matter what he said, seemed rather ready and excited to have them.

"The nursery," Sherlock said softly, eyes locked on the foggy window as the train began to huff away. John furrowed his brow and squeezed the top of Sherlock's thigh. 

"What?"

"The nursery, upstairs. Why do you have it?" Sherlock whispered, watching the buildings that blurred by. John swallowed and scrubbed at his chin, looking down and the table and clenching his fidgety left hand into a fist. 

"Mrs. H put it together before we left. I told her not to, that we weren't trying yet, but she got so excited to have you around," John paused to adress the woman who came around to ask if they wanted tea, then turned and pressed a kiss to his lover's hair. "She's never had pups,"

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, looking over to John, with his scruffy almost-beard and Indigo eyes, lips turned into a sad little smile. John had the most beautiful smile in the world, Sherlock decided. Yes, he ought to be in a record book somewhere. Sherlock swallowed and returned it shyly. "So, you don't want-?"

John shook his head, "No, love, not yet, I might be getting old, but I don't know if I'm ready to be a father."

"You're twenty eight John, that's not old." John smirked and Sherlock blushed a bit. 

"I'm frightfully older than you, that's for sure. But really, Sherlock, I-" John paused, his chest tightening and his left hand trembling horribly. The hand he used to hit Sherlock. The memory sent shivers throughout his body. "Yeah, no, I don't think I'm ready."

Sherlock accepted this and leaned his head on John's shoulder, the rhythmic chuffing of the wheels on the tracks lulled him to sleep (he was still rather weak from last night) and John pet his hair idly, wrapping a single curl around his finger and letting it spring back, falling into a repetition, his mind wandering away from him. 

* * *

_The world smelled of apples, sweet and fresh and John was in heaven, clambering up into the trees of the garden, plucking a ripe one from a branch, leaves tickling at his hands. He pulled it to his nose, breathing in deep gulps of the delicious scent before digging his teeth into the fruit, crunching into the apple with abandon, sticky juice dribbling down his chin._

_"John!" Came the shout from the house, and John flinched, wrapping his leg around the thick knotty branch to straddle it, hidden by the leafy tree, and his child mind imagined it his friend._

_Thank you for the hiding spot, Tree._

_"John!" The Major growled, and John squinted through the foliage to see him in his dress uniform, holding his pipe in his teeth. He climbed further up, feet wobbling beneath him as the branch got smaller and smaller, higher and higher. He must've been at least 5 metres up._

_"JOHN HAMISH, get down here at once!" John yelped in shock, fumbling before he fell, scratching and thrashing before he grasped a hold of the branch in his arms. He whimpered and tried to pull himself up, but he couldn't, he couldn't! He was gonna fall! He panicked, tears welling in his eyes as he looked down at the ground, which seemed so very far away. The Major had come over and was watching him in his predicament, arms crossed._

_"Daddy! Please, help me!" The Major laughed, teeth clicking around his pipe._

_"You got yourself up there, you little brat, now let go."_

_"You catch me?" John panted, arm muscles spasming as he tried to pull himself up, tears flowing down his cheeks._

_"Don't be so_ weak, _John."_

_"It's too high, it's too high up! Please daddy!" John cried, his grip slipping from under him._

_"Trust me, John, let go." John whimpered and closed his eyes. Daddy would catch him, daddy would catch him, it's okay, just let go. He released his arms, watching in slow-motion the dappled light through the tree. He colided with the grassy ground with a thud, his arm clicking beneath him, pain burning through every nerve in his body. He was silent in shock before he tried to sit up, bruises already beginning to form on his skin, his bones aching inside of him._

_"You said-" John looked up with glassy eyes and bleary cheeks, holding his arm tight to his chest, it was screaming in pain, he was pretty sure it was broken. "You said you'd catch me!" He cried, his father glaring down at him, pipe in his callused burnt fingers, teeth yellow and sharp as he leered._

_"Lesson learned. Never trust anyone but yourself."_

* * *

The baby had stopped crying, which was good news. Greg held one arm under her bum and a hand on her back, delicately grazing over her bandages, and he bounced, finally enjoying some peace and quiet ever since the little firecracker had woken up. The Sergeant smiled when he heard a soft snoring from his shoulder, he pulled into his arms properly, seeing her lapping tongue and offering the bottle he'd requisitioned from the evidence locker, now filled with formula. She suckled happily, dozing off and on as Greg admired her sweet apple cheeks and tiny little fingers that grasped out for her bottle. She was perfect.

Greg really didn't like having her here in the morgue, dead mother and brother not ten metres away, but nobody in the precinct had volunteered for the job of babysitting, and besides, Greg was having the time of his life playing daddy. Her Alpha had been called, Mr. Smith, and he sounded almost like he didn't know he _had_ a daughter, and didn't even mention her name. He certainly didn't seem very motivated to come pick her up, so for now, they'd been inseparable. Greg felt like he knew her, but he couldn't place it. 

"I am here because Detective Sergeant Lestrade _asked_ me to," Came a snarl from the door, and Greg grinned at who was arguing with the bobby at the door.

"Let's go see your uncle Sherlock, Goldie-locks," Greg smiled to the baby, who only gurgled nonsensically around her bottle.

"Yeah, I'm sure he did, sweetheart," Anderson sneered, and Greg sighed as he approached. 

"Look, arsehole, I'm his Alpha, he's supposed to be here, now let him through," John growled, and Greg intervened before any bodily harm could be inflicted on Anderson. 

"Right, you heard him, Constable, let them through,"

"But sir you can't be serious," Anderson looked Sherlock up and down, the omega's cheeks flushing crimson. "Isn't he a bit, _delicate,"_ Lestrade ignored him and clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him in. 

"Who's this?" John smiled, knowing that getting upset with some random policeman wasn't going to do Sherlock any favours, he cupped his palm around the flaxen haloed baby, and Greg smiled, bobbing up and down. 

"She's staying with me until her daddy comes to pick her up, isn't she?" She only blinked. "Right then, the case, mother and her pups found torn to shreds, out on the moor in the middle of the night, no witnesses...Sherlock, y'alright?" Greg bunched his eyebrows as Sherlock froze solid, staring at the ginger lying nude on the slab. His tongue was heavy in his throat and his skin was on fire, his entire body screaming- _no._ This wasn't- there was no way...it was too random...

"Emilia," He whispered.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John's stable, concerned voice cut through him and he dragged his eyes away from his friend, tears welling in his eyes, lip pulled between his teeth, skin pale and ghostly. 

"The baby. Her name is Emilia. She- I- I know her," Sherlock whispered, stepping closer to Esther before turning and looking only to her son, a mask freezing over his face as he looked over the tattered gutted boy. 

"Mauled by an animal," Came a soft female voice, and three heads turned to look at the small brunette lab tech, who stepped forward to point to the body. "Bites, pretty obviously made before death," Sherlock watched her incredulously, eyes wide and mouth opened into a small 'o'. 

"You're an omega," Sherlock said softly, eyes scanning over her green jumper and white lab coat and yellow rubber gloves and pearl necklace. She held out a pair of gloves for Sherlock.

"Aren't you?" She smiled, and Sherlock returned it.

"Sherlock,"

"Molly,"

John cleared his throat and Sherlock shook his head, pulling the gloves up to his elbows. 

"Yes, bites, saliva too," Sherlock mumbled, crouching to look closer at the bites, examing one with his fingers, silvery cat-eyes flickering with earnest. 

"Got anything?" Lestrade broke in and Sherlock smiled sadly. 

"He was murdered, foxhounds. The dogs were given something of the mothers, that's why she's the worst mauled, she was running away, she was trying to escape her Alpha, who would rather she be dead than out of his control, so go on and arrest him, Sergeant." 

The room was silent, save for some humming from Emilia. Sherlock noticed the quiet and turned to his shocked audience.

"Please tell me you're not just making this up," Greg said with his brows scrunched together.

"I'm not! I'm not making it up," Sherlock snapped defensively, glancing over to Molly, who looked at him like he was quite possibly the second coming. 

"Sherlock, why don't you work it out for us," John said softly, rubbing a circle on Sherlock's back, soothingly warm and gentle. Sherlock nodded, sucking in a deep breath. 

"The bites, look," He pointed to a clear pattern of teeth marks, Molly leaning forward to inspect, "Clearly canine, but clean, not a rabid animal, no signs of infection around the bite, and the saliva isn't frothed. The jaw is too wide for a terrier, but too narrow for a mastiff, and here," Sherlock pulled a single hair between his yellow gloved fingers."Brown, black and white. Dog of that size and colouring, could be a bloodhound, but on balance, Fox Hound is the most likely. Large size pack going by the number of individual sized jaws,

"And a dog of that temperament, mauling a child? There has to be incentive, they were trained to, told to, and they did their job to their best ability, see they even tried to retrieve their catch, look at the dragging at some of these marks.

"And further, I know this boy, his name is William, and his father is Arthur Smith, he's the groundskeeper at Baskerville House, now please, phone someone and arrest him."

"Brilliant!" John said under his breath. 

Greg could only nod mutely, swallowing thickly and turning to get on it before he remembered the baby. Sherlock quickly snapped off his gloves and cradled his arms, Greg gratefully depositing Emilia into his arms, who stirred, not liking the new scent, especially the smell of an Alpha who wasn't hers. 

"Mycroft will need to imprint soon, so you should phone him first, have him fudge the paperwork," Sherlock mumbled, eyes watching protectively over his new niece. 

"But who says we-" Greg sputtered, and Sherlock gave him a look, and Greg only laughed before clapping his hand on Sherlock's shoulder before looking dreamily down at Emilia.

"You be good for Uncle Sherlock, Emmy," Greg whispered, pressing a kiss to her head before rushing out of the morgue. Sherlock looked down at her himself, offering her a finger, which she grabbed tight into her first, opening her mouth and trying to eat it. Sherlock laughed, sweet and small and really more sad than happy, and John stood catatonic, watching his husband go completely under into his omega, natural care taking instincts buzzing. He smelled delicious, like ripe summer berries and honey and clover and John growled, coming foward to press a kiss to his mop of chocolate. Sherlock scrunched up his nose but smiled. 

"Time to meet your uncle John, Emelia," Sherlock nodded at John who held his arms out, Emelia fussing at the new smell, letting out a little squeak. 

"Shh, that's alright, he's a good guy," Sherlock said, eyes locked on his Alpha, who was practically glowing holding her. 

"She's pretty," He said dumbly, and Sherlock turned, swallowing and squaring his shoulders before making his way to his friend, looking up to make sure John wasn't paying attention and looking down at her face, eyes closed peacefully, skin still glowing and freckled.

"I am so so sorry, Esther," Sherlock whispered, throat constricting, heart heavy in his chest, "I should have- I should have done something, I should have fought for you, I am sorry," His eyes were blurry with heavy tears, and he reached down to grasp her hand, which was horribly cold. "I'm proud of you, Esther, _you_ fought, you were brave. Braver than me, braver than any of us. If I wasn't-" Sherlock bit his lip and tucked his nose down, tears rushing down his cheeks. Jesus, why was he being so fucking emotional? _Get yourself together._

"If you weren't what?" Sherlock jumped and looked to the lab tech. "Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't have been listening, it's just, sometimes I talk to them too and I...no, no, not that I talk to dead people! I mean, not like that! I just... I..."

"No, you're alright," Sherlock said softly, looking down at Esther meaningfully, "so how'd you get here?" Sherlock looked up and gestured to the room, trying not to hide his jealousy. She grinned and pointed to a button on the breast of her emerald jumper. 

"Women's Land Army," Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows together. 

"I thought you were all farmers?"

"Mostly, yes, but we help where we're needed." She smiled, "You should look into it,"

"But I'm not a woman," He said obviously, feeling the need to distinguish himself. 

"Oh no of course not, they really ought to change the names of these things, it's horribly prejudiced, but all omegas and f-betas are technically allowed to join." She grinned, toodling off to fetch a pamphlet from a bench nearby, handing it to Sherlock. 

_War's on the way! Do your bit and enlist!_

"Sherlock, we should get going," John put his hand around Sherlock's waist, tugging him away and tipping his hat to Molly, "Lovely to meet you, ma'am," She gave him a queer smile before turning and getting back to taking care of the bodies. Sherlock watched her in awe. "What's that, darling?" John looked down to Sherlock's little paper fold-out, which he held in shaking fingers like it was made of gold. 

"I'm not sure," He said honestly, looking up to John, lips quirked into a tiny smile. John smiled quizzically before linking their arms and pulling him away, "You did so good, darling, that was amazing what you did back there," John pressed a kiss to his ear and Sherlock blushed, but his heart still ached in his chest, everything feeling so conflicted. 

"I knew what he was doing, Jawn, but I couldn't- I didn't try hard enough- and now she's gone, and it's _my fault._ "

"Sherlock, this is not your fault, not in any sense of the word."

Sherlock nodded and let John guide him away form the morgue, but deep down he knew that he was right.

It was certainly, most definitely Sherlock's fault. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look up the old WLA uniforms they are so fucking adorable
> 
> hope you enjoyed this chapter lovely people <3


	24. Chapter 24

17 July 1939

John was knackered. Not since that outbreak of malaria back in Calcutta had the good doctor been so off his feet. The clinic was packed, and he was frightfully late for dinner. His shoes clacked against the pavement as he strode up Baker Street, giving the cafe owner a nod before turning his key and stepping in, his hat and coat on the rack. Mrs. Hudson was out, if the shut door and missing hat were anything to be going on, and John climbed the stairs like it was the final hundred yards up Everest. A ribbon of black smoke met his nose and he rushed up the rest, pushing open the door to find the flat quite smoked.

"Sherlock!" He cried, holding his handkerchief to his nose, coughing and finding his husband at the windows, struggling to get the latch open. "Jesus Sherlock, are you trying to burn the flat down?" John cried, pulling his gasping lover to the floor, sitting him down on the rug where there was less smoke before attending the windows. Sherlock's hair was mustled, and he too looked rather done-in himself, wearing an apron over his button down. 

"I wasn't trying to," He said defeatedly, cheeks flushed in embarrassment. John looked up to the kitchen to see a blacken pan of something on the bench. He strode over and found the oven and hob off, and bit back a chuckle at his husband's vain efforts at homemaking. 

"And what were you trying to do?" He smiled, giving the pouty omega a chuffed smirk. 

"Roast." Sherlock mumbled, ears crimson, "I'm sorry,"

"No harm done, love," John smiled, the flat beginning to be less ashy. He put his hands in his pockets and stood with his feet wide, Sherlock blushing at his posture, holding tight around his knees on the rug. "Besides," He mumbled, standing over his now very bashful husband, "maybe I like being treated like a god,"

"A- a what?" Sherlock said softly, eyes glowing like a kitten. John grinned. 

"Well, you've left me burnt offerings," John growled, pulling Sherlock to his feet, and Sherlock gave him a glare. 

"Mrs. H left us some sandwiches in case I messed it up," Sherlock mumbled, brows furrowed in frustration. John smiled and pulled Sherlock in around the waist and pressing a kiss to his bondbite, his lover shivering at the contact. "Jawn! what are you doing?" John continued his assault on the delicate, sweet and honeyed skin, suckling darkening marks, fingers fumbling at the buttons of Sherlock's collar. 

"Mmm," He mumbled into his pale smooth skin, "long day. Long, long day," Sherlock's collarbones were dipped in pink blush, and John ran callused thumbs through the curls that hung by his ears. Sherlock yelped as John pulled the omega over his shoulder, holding him by the inside of his knees.

"Jawn! Put me down!" Sherlock whined, kicking his feet a bit before slumping his head against John's back, curls falling down over his eyes. "Jawn!" He only mumbled as John pulled him down the hall. "John we haven't even had dinner," John grinned as he flopped Sherlock down on the bed, his husband's eyes looking rather more annoyed than incensed. John stepped back and gave Sherlock a nod. 

"Well, if you're so hungry, why don't you get on those knees and we'll see what we can do?"

Sherlock gasped, sitting up on his elbows with his mouth open. John's dirty talk was so puerile, and yet, here Sherlock was, tummy in a knot, cock stirring, face flushed and throat dry. Sherlock's entire body glowed with embarrassment and excitement as he slowly crawled down off the bed, some blankets tangling around his ankles. 

"Ah ah," John growled and put a hand up and Sherlock froze, feeling so _bloody_ patronized but so fucking turned on. Damn you, John. Damn you and your fucking voice. "Clothes off, Sherlock," Sherlock's cheeks flared, his hands shaking but he looked down bashfully and pulled off his apron, tugging open the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. John's gaze felt like electricity on his skin, sending shivers down his back as he tugged his shirt off his shoulders, unclipping his braces and dropping his trousers. 

"On your knees, princess," He grumbled and Sherlock's knees hit the floor with a thump, looking up with wide, glowing blue eyes. His fingers shook as he fiddled with John's belt, pulling it open and getting his zipper down and freeing his pulsing cock. He suckled at the head of it, watching John's reaction's intently, before John tangled his fingers into his curls and tugged him forward, forcing himself down Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's eyes flew wide as the tip hit the back of his throat, but he adjusted, nostrils flaring, hallowing his cheeks and sucking like his life depended on it. John threw his head back, fingers laced through Sherlock's hair, fucking those sweet plush lips. _Christ._

" _Sherlock._ Christ Sherlock," John growled, and Sherlock quickened his paces, swirling his tongue through the thick ginger hair and using his hands to cup his bullocks and give a light squeeze. John yanked on Sherlock's hair before he went still, cock sputtering and pouring spunk down Sherlock's throat before he pulled away, letting the last few squirts land across Sherlock's pure, reddening mouth. The omega licked his lips and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking expectantly up to his alpha, reaching out to touch his calves delicately as John zipped himself up. They shared a look and Sherlock fell into giggles. John put his hands on his hips and watched as Sherlock pulled himself up.

"And what's so funny?" He smiled, resting his hands on Sherlock's sides as he choked out giggles. He slumped forward onto John's shoulder. 

"I burnt the roast," Sherlock laughed, his lips turned into that silly little smile. John chuckled and led Sherlock by the hand into the sitting room. 

"Sandwiches it is then,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik this is probably the shortest chapter known to man! but I got some rather strong criticism and it's been hard to write without feeling I'm letting people down. 
> 
> also, i wanted to say, that the flashbacks of John's childhood were supposed to be highlights of his empathy, even as an alpha, of abuse and of Sherlock. I'm sorry if you hated them, I just wanted to give more characterization bc this is the first story I've written that isn't just a PWP or hurt/comfort. 
> 
> again, I'm sorry if you feel like I let you down


	25. Chapter 25

24 July 1939

Sherlock smiled, a soft childish smile that radiated from inside. He curled his head further into the warm, broad chest of his alpha as they listened to the wireless. Some serial that John enjoyed, Sherlock didn't really care. His book lay shut by his feet as they cuddled, a tangle of limbs on the sofa. There was a knock at the door but Sherlock kept his nose pressed into the dark warm musk of _Jawn._ A lot of their days were spent like this, John worked a few shifts during the week at the clinic, and Sherlock helped Lestrade now and then, and they had plenty of time together. A mad rush to not be in a rush. There was nowhere in the world Sherlock would rather be than in the arms of his husband, golden strong and safe John.

He smiled. _His_ John. 

"yoo hoo, oh hello boys, John this came for you," Mrs. Hudson toodled in, giving John a letter and patting Sherlock's hair. 

"Thanks," He mumbled, his eyebrows furrowed, nudging Sherlock up. The omega sat up and groaned, missing the warmth already as John stood, ripping open the letter, reading quickly and flipping to the second page before reading it over again. He looked up at Sherlock, and the smaller man shivered. John's eyes glowed with a dark seriousness, apologetic and strong and it was frightening Sherlock, John's scent had changed. 

"What is it, John?" Sherlock rubbed his eyes, standing and approaching to read it himself, his heart tight and his throat itchy. John shook his head and put the letter on his desk.

"Nothing to concern you with, darling,"

"No John. Don't do that. Tell me."

"Sherlock, I _said_ , it's nothing to concern you." John growled, baring his teeth, eyes dark. Sherlock whimpered and bowed his head. The old Sherlock wouldn't do this, _what's wrong with you? stop this!_ No! No, John needs me to be this, I can be this for John. Anything for John. John loves me. 

"I'm sorry, I understand," Sherlock turned his chin and looked away. John's eyes remained on the letter, his fist against the wood of the desk. He scrubbed his face and sighed. 

"No, Sherlock, god, it's fine, I'll have to tell you anyway, fuck," John growled, and Sherlock's nostrils flared. John was upset, and it was upsetting Sherlock, his knees weak and his heart racing.

"I've been reassigned, Sherlock, it's not a big deal. Happens all the time," John paused, swallowing thickly.

"Where?" Sherlock rubbed a spot on the floor with his shoe.

"Hospital ship, HMHS Paris," 

Silence.

"It's not a big deal, Sherlock, there's no need to fret about it," John said quickly, lips turned into a smile that Sherlock knew was fake.

"When?"

"Three weeks." Sherlock's chin snapped over and he gasped.

"But John- that's," Sherlock sputtered, stepping closer, his stomach falling inside of him, feeling so hallow and yet so heavy that each step felt as though he were laden with stones.

" _Sherlock_ ," John put a up a hand and Sherlock stopped. "I really don't need this right now, besides, you have washing to do." John gave him a rough nod before pulling his suit jacket over his shoulders, straightening it and squaring his jaw. He ordered some papers on his desk, grabbing his briefcase. He tucked his orders into his breast pocket and gave Sherlock a kiss to his cheek, holding it for a second longer, just to feel warm, soft skin beneath his lips. 

"Where are you going?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, princess, I'll be home for tea," John's feet echoed through the flat as he descended the staircase, practically marching out onto the pavement. Sherlock stood in the living room, frozen to the ground, feeling like soap in the bath, dissolving bit by bit as he held his breath. 

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Mrs. H gave his cheek a slap, "You look quite pale," 

"Fine, I'm fine, I have to make a call." She opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it, turning and going off to do something or another. Sherlock swallowed his pride, his entire body numb, like one big callus as he approached John's desk, fingers shaking as he grasped the handle of the phone and dialed the number, each ring a mocking tone in his ears. 

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was neck deep in work. So much to be done and so little money to pay for it. The American State Department had practically laughed in their faces when they asked for money, and now he sat defeated, shoulders hunched and wrinkles forming as he sipped back his sherry, shuffling papers about uselessly. He clenched his hand into a fist and his eyes snapped over to the photos on his desk. A newly framed portrait of Greg and Emelia at her christening, him and Gregory's wedding (a simple but honourable affair at the registrar's office), and a freckle faced Sherlock, swimming in his presentation gown, innocent and sweet, holding onto Mycroft like his life depended on it. That may have been the last day that his baby brother truly loved him. 

_RING RING!_ Mycroft gasped, quite suddenly ripped from his thoughts as his phone rang with intensity, practically shaking the desk it was so insistent. 

"Mycroft Holmes," He said coolly, calmly, heart still racing in his chest. "Who is this?"

"Offer John a position at the foreign office." 

"Sherlock," Mycroft stated, obviously, face wrinkled with confusion as he sat back in his enormous chair. 

"He can't leave, Mycroft. Assign him something, anything,"

"And why would I do such a thing, brother dear?" Mycroft grinned. The seething on the other end of the phone was quite humourous and Mycroft itched his at his eyebrow, lips still turned into a twisted smile.

"Please. Help me, Mycroft, I can't lose him, I can't, I-" Sherlock sounded positively desperate, it was upsetting Mycroft, even if Sherlock was no longer his concern.

"Sherlock, it's not that simple."

"It is! It is that simple, you do it all the time, people get new positions offered all the time, for all sorts of reasons, and-"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft scowled, "I hope someday you will be mature enough to understand that I cannot make exceptions, for any reason, if not especially because he is my brother-in-law."

"I'll die Mycroft. If he dies, I die, I know it. I-" Sherlock trailed off, his voice wobbly, "I wouldn't be able to live without him," He conceded in a broken whisper, and something that might in other people be referred to as a heart cracked inside of Mycroft Holmes. 

" _Sherlock_ ,"

"You said you'd look after me, and I need it now. I'm not an idiot, I read the papers. We both know that we wouldn't win a war with Germany."

"Sherlock that's-"

"I'm...asking, for your help."

There was a thick and tense silence until Sherlock sucked in a breath on the other line. 

"Please,"

"I'll see what I can do Sherlock," Mycroft swallowed. "What does John say about this?"

"Doesn't matter. I have to go, goodbye." 

The phone went dead and Mycroft was speechless, head limply hanging in the air, phone slipping in his fingertips. Caring was not an advantage, and yet here he was. He pushed a button on his desk and sighed.

"Anthea, I need the file on John Watson,"

* * *

The solicitors office was dark and musty, books lining the shelves and the air heavy with smoke. John grimaced, his left hand spasming like mad as he sat in the waiting room, memories of pipe tobacco and smoke and-

"Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, hi, hello, sorry," He stood and shook the man's hand. He was small and thin and he seemed to puff up when they stood breast to breast. John's military stance and calm strength often left less powerful alphas feeling competetive.

"I'm Matthew Carmichael," The dark haired man's eyebrows raised when he saw the ring on John's finger, "I'm sorry, you are an alpha, correct?" John fixed him with a harsh glare and dropped his hand, folding them behind his back.

"Problem?" 

"No, no problem, just this way," He took them into a smaller office, gesturing for John to sit in the swivel chair across from him. "Now what was it you needed my assistance with?"

"I need to sort out my will and what will happen to my family, my omega specifically, when the time comes,"

"Ah, yes, nothing wrong with it. I say it's always better to be prepared than to leave family high and dry. What was your wife's name?"

"His name is Sherlock," The solicitor's mouth hung open just the slightest bit and John tried to hide the gloat on his face. Male omegas were rare, and coveted among alphas- being exceptionally fertile and legendary bed mates. "I need to be sure he'll be my sole heir, and free to stay in my house." Mr. Carmichael looked at him quizzically, as if he had three eyes, before clearing his throat.

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible, Dr. Watson,"

"Perhaps I should speak to someone else, good day Mr. Carmichael,"

"No! Dr. Watson, I assure you, this comes from no personal feeling, but your omega-"

" _Sherlock_ "

"Sorry, yes, _Sherlock_ , is not at liberty to own property, in fact, he'd need to be in your will as to whom you'd wish to inherit him,"

"Inherit him?"

"Sherlock is your legal property, Dr. Watson, I don't understand how you couldn't know this,"

"I thought this was the twentieth century, sorry, my mistake!" John slammed his fist on the desk, causing the solicitor to quickly intervene.

"I don't make the laws, sir, I only study them, and even if Sherlock isn't to be your heir, you ought to see that things are organized for him after your passing. Are you the Alphus Patronus of your family?"

"No, that's my sister," Mr. Carmichael bit back a comment to the colorfulness of the Watson family- with a female alpha _and_ a male omega, it made one's head spin a bit. 

"Well, then Sherlock would be under her protection, as a brother, or as a second mate."

"Second mate?" John snorted, "Is this 1850?" 

"Dr. Watson, please," He raised his hands to calm the blond seething alpha, "if not your sister, you'll need to appoint someone else to inherit Sherlock," 

"Sod this, I can't- I can't deal with any of this," John growled, teeth snarling as he put on his hat and gave the solicitor a withering glare. "Good day, sir,"

John's teeth ground together as he marched down the pavement, his alpha reeking, the crowds parting. He growled as he walked, feet hitting the ground with punishing force, fingers grasping his briefcase with whitening knuckles. Fucking hell. Fucking hell! Seriously, beta women were granted suffrage _decades_ ago. Sherlock was far more intelligent, far more human than plenty of them. He stopped, tremor stronger than ever and sighed. He'd kill for Sherlock, die for Sherlock. Any day of the week.

But his Country and Empire came first. 

* * *

Sherlock let himself get lost in repetitive work. Often he could just let himself slip into his mind palace and come out again with the entire kitchen floor polished. He shook his head, knees burried in the damp dirt of the tiny garden, grass barely stirring in a soft breeze. Car horns and sirens and dogs barking all drifted away, but his mind palace was solidly locked. 

John's leaving. 

Sherlock scolded himself. Of course John was leaving, and good riddance! Finally alone and free, with John miles away he'd be free at last. 

John could die.

Bullet between his eyes, his beautiful eyes the colour of the sea.

Trapped in the hull of a ship as it sank, water sinking up and covering his neck, nose, head.

And there was nothing Sherlock could do.

Something horrible and dark and heavy rested in his chest, and Sherlock sputtered as he lifted a shirt to the washing line, fingers trembling around the pins.

"Sherlock!" The omega gasped and turned to see Greg coming around the bins. "Hello!" Sherlock only watched in terror, face flushed with crimson. Greg wasn't supposed to see him like this- like a housewife.

"Lestrade," He said curtly, turning and continuing his work with a cool facade. 

"There was a murder in the park, I thought you might like to come take a look," Greg smiled, taking a singular step closer.

"Sorry, I'm busy, please go away," Greg's smile faded and he scratched his neck, feeling rather awkward as Sherlock hung up more washing.

"Is something the matter?"

"No! Nothing is 'the matter' now please go, Lestrade," Greg sighed and stepped closer.

"Sherlock, something's wrong, let me help,"

"I don't need help! I don't need you! I'm not helpless, I'm not meek, and I don't want to help you with any murders, please leave me alone," Greg's mouth hung open and Sherlock angrily pinned up some socks, teeth grit and stomach churning.

"Is it about John? Is he hurting you, Sherlock?" Greg reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist as he reached for the basket. Sherlock growled and wrenched his wrist away, hitting Greg on the arm with all his might. 

"No. He's not. I just want to be alone!"

" _Sherlock,_ what's gotten into you?"

"Shut up, Lestrade, now go! Please don't tell my brother you saw me,"

"Alright! I'm going!" The detective growled, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaving through the gate. Sherlock refused to watch him go, eyes fixed on something in the distance, heart heavy and eyes welling with tears he refused to let fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't google HMHS Paris unless you want spoilers*! 
> 
> *I don't know if wwii counts as a spoiler but who knows


	26. Chapter 26

7 August 1939 2:35am

Emelia Violet Esther Holmes was walking. Running, in fact, with varying levels of success, and now that she'd learned how to climb out of her crib, was now in the habit of exploring the house at night. Mycroft groaned as the first traces of her wailing came in through the door of his and Gregory's bedroom. His husband had just been up to put her to sleep, and was now completely passed out. Mycroft stood and pulled on his robe, rubbing at his thinning hair and pressing a kiss to Gregory's weathered skin, to which the exhuasted beta grunted. He shuffled out into the hallway to find Emelia in a puddle on the floor, a river of tears and snot flowing down her face and onto the plush red runner.

"Oh my, I'm here, I'm here, no need to shout about it," Mycroft knelt and scooped her into his arms, his scent immediately soothing to her, but she was still quite stroppy, swinging her tiny balled fist about in a gesture of anger.

"Yes, I know darling, I know, you don't want to sleep, it's so wretched isn't it, daughter mine," She whined as he wiped her nose with the sleeve of his dressing gown, pale blue eyes shimmering with unfallen tears. Mycroft only cooed, bouncing a bit and rubbing her soft warm back through her nightgown. "Shh, it's alright, I understand darling, let's go back to the nursery and have a chat about it," Mycroft settled her on his hip and yawned as they made their way to her room. He settled himself into the rocking chair and pat her back as she hiccuped the last of her sobs. He peeked an eye over to her, sighing when he found her wide awake, staring back at him stubbornly. 

"You're just like your uncle, Emmy, I remember when he was even smaller than you," Mycroft said sadly, face falling into a frown before Emmy pat his face with her tiny hand, grabbing at his chin and nose and giggling. "I used to read him stories when he couldn't sleep, why don't we try for that?"

Emmy made a squeak in affirmative. Mycroft smiled and reached for a book on her chest of drawers. He pulled his spectacles out of his pocket and held them out to read and squinting at the yellow title surrounded by stars on a blue book jacket. 

"Let's see what we have here...Mary...Poppins by P.L. Travers." Mycroft enjoyed the illustration of an umbrella on the front page and cleared his throat as Emmy sat on his knee, leaning up to his chest and staring down at the page. He cleared his throat and began to read, "If you want to find Cherry Tree Lane, all you have to do is ask the Policeman at the crossroads..."

* * *

"Sherlock, what is this?" John growled later that morning as Sherlock looked into his microscope. He flapped the letter about in the air and set it on the bench for Sherlock to read. The omega looked at him strangely before reading it and biting his lip. "Did you do this?"

"No," He squeaked and John snarled, hand pressing offending letter to the wood with his finger pointed at Sherlock. 

"Are you lying to me?" He growled in a low, skin-crawlingly scary voice in Sherlock's ear. Sherlock shuddered and looked away, cheeks flushing with crimson.

"It was Mycroft," Sherlock said quickly, looking up with wide glowing eyes, "I thought you'd be pleased,"

"Pleased?" John snorted, laughing sarcastically dark, "You thought I'd be bloody _pleased?_ Pleased that my omega thinks he's clever enough to outwit me when I told him _explicitly_ what my wishes were."

"But you won't have to go! I won't lose you!"

"Oh! I see! It's all about you? It's always all about you, isn't it?" 

"John, I don't understand why you're upset!" John only shook his head, hands on his hips, lip pulled between his teeth. His pheromones were raging and were sending waves of fear through Sherlock as John stewed. 

"You don't understand? Well, let me lay it out for you," John seethed, hand grasping Sherlock's hair, pulling his head back and snarling, "You think you're clever enough to go behind my back, which you are not. You will not undermine _my authority._ Is that too much for you to understand, Sherlock?"

"No, John," He whimpered, eyes shut tight as his scalp burned.

"Clearly not, Sherlock. I will not accept this pity job from your brother because I am afraid. That would make me a deserter, to my men and to my country."

"But-" John growled and tugged on his locks, eyes dark and silencing Sherlock immediately. 

"No, Sherlock, I don't need to justify anything to you. You are _my_ omega, you obey _my_ wishes. Because you're _mine_ , and you will respect me, Sherlock. I don't like having to keep reminding you,"

"Yes, John, I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, anger bubbling in his tummy. Just another reminder why he never wanted to be married in the first place- all alphas were the same. John pressed a kiss to his forehead, chaste and firm and he gave Sherlock's thigh a pat. 

"Good. Don't you _ever_ do that again, or there will be consequences."

"Yes John," Sherlock's omega was so upset that he had done this to John, even if Sherlock hadn't done anything wrong, that he found himself grasping out and curling into John's neck. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John, please forgive me,"

"I forgive you, Sherlock," John breathed into his ear as he pulled him up from his stool and led him into the sitting room, hand resting on Sherlock's hip as he nuzzled his neck, nose pressing into his curly locks. "I thought we might go to the cinema later, does that sound nice?"

"Sure," Sherlock mumbled, eyes drying their chemical tears. 

"Good, because I'm sure you know what day it is," Sherlock bit his lip and nodded.

"Of course I know."

"You hadn't sang me happy birthday yet," 

"I don't sing,"

"Shame," John smirked, sucking onto Sherlock's bond bite, "One more year until I'm _thirty_ , and far too old for you,"

"Jawn I don't think you're old!"

"I am, I'm a grizzly old man, snatched you out of the craddle," John murmured as he playfully nibbled at the delicate expanse of marble neck. Sherlock whined as his scruffly chin scratched at his skin. 

"Jawn! You're tickling me! Stop it!" Sherlock pushed away John's chin, fingers resting in the scruffy ginger hair, which had grown out evenly and nicely. 

"You like it,"

"Do not!"

"Do too, now stay still," John reached around to give a firm slap on the seat of his trousers and Sherlock whined, rolling his eyes as John stood back and looked him over.

"And what exactly are you looking at?"

"Haven't had a proper birthday present in years, you know," John smirked, absent mindlessly scratching at his chin. 

" _Jawn_ , Mrs. Hudson is right downstairs, and my experiments aren't finished, besides your radio programme starts in fifteen minutes-Jawn!" Sherlock cried as John seamlessly unbuttoned his trousers and dropped them and his pants around his ankles. Sherlock crossed his legs and rolled his eyes. "Why do you always want this at such inconvenient times!" 

"Sod your expiriments, and Mrs. Hudson, it's my bloody birthday and I'll bugger my husband if I jolly well want to," John growled before launching forward and devouring Sherlock's mouth, teeth clacking and tongue exploring as he pulled him to the ground. Sherlock turned his head and grumbled.

"I am not having make-up sex on the floor,"

"Where would you suggest?" John growled and Sherlock sighed.

"Bed?"

"Too far," John breathed as he continued to kiss along Sherlock's chin, down his throat and resting on his clavicle as he unbuttoned his shirt. "Arm chair?" Sherlock only grumbled and John smiled, grasping him by the waist and attacking his lips, sucking and biting and tugging on the soft pink skin as he flopped down into the chair. Sherlock straddled him, and John grinned as Sherlock began to kiss back, gentle and sweet and innocent, plush little arse wiggling on John's lap as Sherlock began to get wet, dribbling onto John's trouser legs.

"Does this count as a birthday present?" Sherlock whispered as he nuzzled into John's neck, arousal dampening beneath him as he breathed in the musky goodness of an alpha beginning his rut. It was a bit of a source of pride to be able to get John there out of heat. 

"How about one for every year?"

"Jawn, we are not fucking twenty nine times in one night. That's medically imposible."

"We could always try," John grinned, hands rubbing down low along Sherlock's back, "Now go on, darling, you know what to do," The omega blushed and reached down to unzip John, only partially prepared to see his cock already purpling hard, thick and veiny and oh god how did that really fit inside of him? John grasped his thighs with strong callused fingers and turned him around, one hand straying up to rest on his throat as he rolled on a condom (conveniently stashed in his pocket) and positioned himself at Sherlock's entrance. 

"You're fucking insatiable John, honestly," Sherlock grumbled as John slowly pushed in, stretching horribly at the ring of muscle there. Sherlock grit his teeth and closed his eyes. This was _so_ much easier in heat, when his pain receptors were weakened and he was dripping with lubricant. 

"Hush," John snarled, biting at Sherlock's ear and pressing gently at the base of his throat as he finally got all the way in. "Put some work in, darling, it's my birthday after all," Sherlock swallowed and pushed himself up with trembling thighs before falling back down, impaled. He wasn't going fast enough, John's pheremones were weakening him, and he honestly felt quite dizzy. 

"I'm trying John, it _hurts,"_ Sherlock whined, entire body spasming in protest as he quickened his pace. John sighed and gave him a pat.

"Shh, it's alright, I understand, we'll readjust," John pressed a reassuring kiss to the hallow space between Sherlock's shoulder blades, lapping at the beads of sweat there. He grasped Sherlock firmly by the waist and flipped over, resting Sherlock's tummy on the seat of the chair, his own knees resting on the rug. He growled and pressed Sherlock down into the fabric, his rut now beginning to take him. He pounded into Sherlock with a punishing speed and strength, hands gripping bruises into his hips as he ground into him.

Sherlock was a whimpering mess, hair dripping with sweat and skin clammy and moist. He panted and gasped but his lungs just couldn't get enough air and each thrust sent big blots of colour in front of his eyes. He groaned and grasped at the fabric of the chair, knuckles white as John hit that certain bunch of nerves inside of him. He keened in a sound that couldn't be recognized as any form of lingual communication and yowled as his own cock searched for release, his hips bucking into the chair. He gasped, coming all over himself, clear bodily fluid that drenched the chair and was dripping down his front. 

He practically screamed as John continued, his knot begining to swell and his fingernails pressing cresent shapes into Sherlock's pale skin. He was ghastly oversensitive and each thrust felt like fireworks inside his body. 

"Jawn!" He mewled, head thrown forward, fringe dripping in his eyes as John hit the spot again and again and again until a firm dry hand grasped his hair and pulled back like the reins of a horse and growled. 

"MINE!"

Sherlock keened and nodded, shaking and trembling like a leaf, shivering as beads of sweat rolled down his back, John's clothed thighs chafing against his own.

"y-yours! yours, Jawn!"

A thundering growl vibrated through Sherlock as John's knot pressed through him, even more pain rippling through him. John came with a shot, into the condom and bit down on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, freezing him in place as they were intertwined. Sherlock shuddered, his limps atrophied as John hit that paralyzing spot.

“ _Christ_ ,” John whispered as he let go of Sherlock’s neck, his knot still inflated inside of his mate. “God, you’re beautiful Sherlock,” John whispered, hands rubbing lovingly along Sherlock’s shivering chest, peppering kisses along the back of his shoulders. 

“Are you still cross with me Jawn?” Sherlock whispered, eyes welled with tears. John only shushed him with a stroke across his flank as he adjusted them so that Sherlock was in his lap again, head thrown back over his shoulder. 

”No, darling,” John lulled, lapping at his bondbite (an instinctual need once knotted), “of course I’m not cross, you just need to remember your place sometimes,”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Sherlock whimpered, eyes screwed shut, tears running down his bleary cheeks, still flushed in after glow. 

”I know darling,” John pet his sides, smiling warmly, heart swollen with adoration for his boy. “You’re alright, you’re mine, _always_ ,” 

Sherlock sniffled, his chest tight and his cheeks soaked with tears.

”I’m sorry I’m crying, I don’t know why,” Sherlock laughed, wiping at his eyes, a twisted sort of amusement, sobbing while still knotted with his Alpha. 

“I love you, Sherlock.” John said seriously, his knot beginning to throb as it deflated. 

Sherlock only swallowed and nodded, stomach churning with horrible feelings he couldn’t name, “I love you too,” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your kind support!!! <3


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Time Goes By - Dooley Wilson  
> We'll Meet Again- Vera Lynn

10 August 1939

Sherlock couldn't sleep. Not that he would want to. Not when he had...he paused and looked up at the clock...6 hours until he had to say goodbye. Sherlock wasn't sure what he was feeling, not that he ever was, but this was so foreign he could barely find the words. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, everything tasted foul, and his heart was racing every time he thought about it. He slowly sat up, the covers bunching at his knees as he pushed himself up and looked down at his Alpha.

Pale moonlight shone across his skin, every mark and tiny scar glowing with a heavenly colour of gold. His chest rose and fell solidly, steadily, that's what John was. Steady. Strong. Constant. Home. Sherlock's eyes flickered over him, memorizing him. This was _John_. John H. Watson who liked strawberry jam and hated sugar in his tea. John H. Watson who wore a kilt at his wedding and hated every damn minute of it. John H. Watson who kissed him like he was a treasure and was generous and kind and gentle, even if he could break every bone in your body.

Sometimes Sherlock was afraid he might disappear. That AlphaJohn would take over and never let go. Dark eyes and snarling teeth and bruising hands and discipline. 

Sometimes Sherlock was afraid that John might come back different. Sometimes Sherlock was afraid that John might not come back at all. 

Sherlock crawled off of the bed, wrapping himself in his dressing gown and tiptoeing to the sitting room, the door creaking slightly as it turned on it's hinges. He was a blur of blue silk as he snuck through the kitchen and set himself at John's desk, pulling out a blank sheet of paper, a blue envelope and his fountain pen, uncapping it and filling it from the small pot of ink.

* * *

_10 August 1939_

_John,_

_I don't know why I'm writing this to you. You're right down the hall, and honestly, you're making more noise than I am with all that snoring._

_You've changed me, John. Whether it is better or worse, I do not know. I was nothing, I had no one. But now, I'm yours, I'm married to the wisest, kindest, strongest man that I know. You've touched every piece of me, and coloured it with your attentions, and now I am only yours._

_I want you to know that I am waiting for you here, at home, and I will wait as long as it takes. You will always have a family, John, and we will always be here for you. I love you, sincerely, and I have never loved anyone else._

_Yours, always yours,_

_Sherlock_

* * *

John Watson's left hand was steady as he buttoned his jacket, pulling his belt around and buckling it tight around his stomach. He smiled at Sherlock, who knelt at his feet and helped him into his boots. He didn't have to do it, he just did. John pressed a kiss to his forehead when he stood, the omega's nose pressed into his neck, reaching up and wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding tight, as if John might vaporize in any moment. 

"Darling, I've got to get my things," John whispered into his curls, breathing deep that minty honey-sweet smell of his lover. Sherlock nodded and pulled away, eyes glassy as he turned to his dressing table and pulled his scarf into his brushed out silky hair. He stared down his reflection and John could almost coo at his adorable feat of strength, squaring his shoulder and sucking in his breath. The Captain adjusted his things in his pack and smiled. "Wait here a moment, Sherlock, I have a surprise for you," Sherlock nodded but slyly pulled the blue envelope scrawled in his loopy cursive _John Watson._ He shoved into the bottom of John's bag and quickly sat back in his chair to look innocent. 

"Close your eyes!" John cried from the doorway, hands behind his back, grinning with a chuffed smile. Sherlock grumbled but shut his eyes anyways, holding out his hands expentantly. Suddenly John was kissing him and Sherlock opened his eyes immediately. 

"Jawn that's not a surprise!"

"Sorry, couldn't resist," John grinned and tutted, "eyes closed!"

"They _were_ closed!" Sherlock opened his mouth to protest some more when a heavy, square object was placed in his hands. He held it, approximately 1800g, metal with leather straps, hallow...He peeked open his eye and gasped. "Jawn how much did this cost?!"

"Since when have you worried about money?" John grinned and kissed Sherlock's cheek, down on one knee as Sherlock perched on his tufted stool. 

"It's a camera!" Sherlock beamed, holding it and looking down in to the viewfinder, "Look, there's you!" He smiled at the little reflection of John, sitting in their room with his uniform on.

"Take my picture then, the shutter's right here," John guided his fingers around the front to the button and smiled into the two lensed front. 

"How many pictures can I take?"

"What? Am I unworthy a subject?" John chided and Sherlock shook his head. "12 per pack of film, but I got some extras too,"

"Alright...step back a bit, stand up straight," Sherlock instructed, looking intently into the viewfinder. "Salute!" John grinned and raised his hand. Sherlock snapped the photograph and looked up with a smile. John strode over, placing the camera on the vanity and pulling Sherlock into a kiss. It was warm and soft and wonderful and Sherlock whined as he pulled away. 

"Off we go, darling," 

* * *

Sherlock's eyes were laden with tears as they walked through the train station. Mrs. Hudson had taken John's arm and they walked, Sherlock following with his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, watching the floor as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. John smiled and squeezed Mrs. Hudson's arm before planting a kiss on her cheek.

"This is my train, Mrs. H, wish me luck!" She only smiled sadly and pat his face.

"You be careful out there, young man, I mean it," She chided, eyes full of pride. He leaned in and whispered in her ear.

"Could you give us a moment, Mrs. H?" She nodded and toodled off, holding her purse like her life depended on it, searching inside of it for her hankercheif. Sherlock looked up dolefully, tears brimming and lip wobbling as he stepped closer. John only gave him a soft smile, carresing his cheekbone with a single callused finger before pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

"The time will fly by, Sherlock, I promise."

"I don't want you to go, John," Sherlock whispered, throat itching and voice teetering to the breaking point. 

"I have to go, love," John whispered, running his fingers down across his nape, resting at the collar of his shirt. "You must promise to write me, as often as you can,"

"Of course John, of course I will," Sherlock said quickly as the train's horn blared as it pulled up to the platform, a cloud of mist forming around their feet, filling the world with haze as John's eyes found his, two deep cavernous oceans that Sherlock was liable to lose himself in. His boyish grin faded for a moment and he whispered. 

"I will always, always come back to you, I promise,"

"But you can't promise, John, you can't!" Sherlock whispered, voice finally broken, a single rebellious tear running down his cheek. John tutted and wiped it away with his thumb, resting it on Sherlock's face as his eyes became very serious. 

"I promise."

Their lips found each other as Sherlock desperately kissed him, hands reaching out around his shoulders and pulling him close, sucking in his strong, gunpowdery scent. John kissed back, firm but delicate as he held Sherlock's face in his powerful hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. He moved to pull away but Sherlock pressed further before dropping his head to his shoulder and whispering in a cracked and broken voice.

"Just one moment more, John, just one more,"

Sherlock felt more tears down his face as John pulled away, eyes deep and glowing with a colbalt blue. He smiled, golden and warm like Mediterranean sunshine and pressed a final kiss to the crown of Sherlock's curls, lips brushing against the fabric of his silk scarf. 

They said nothing as he boarded the train, their eyes locked as he took his seat by the window, and Sherlock stepped forward, as if to reach out and catch him, before the horn blared once more and the wheels began to chug along the tracks. Sherlock's feet moved of their own volition as he stepped along with it, watching John's eyes and smiling, as if this were just a silly game of chase and if just kept going he would catch him. Suddenly a soft velvety hand caught his and pulled him back as he reached the end of the platform, his heart sinking as the golden hair and blue eyes grew smaller and smaller and smaller, and soon he could barely see a face at all.

He stood there for a while, and when he finally turned and burried his face into the crook of the old woman's neck, she cooed and pet his hair.

"He'll be just fine, Sherlock, now let's get you some tea, you'll feel awfully better when you have some tea." Sherlock could only nod mutely and let her tug him along, turning once more to watch the little dot on the horizon.

The little dot that was John. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another 3am update! I swear I'm a bat sometimes I can only write at night <3 ilysm


	28. Chapter 28

_18 August 1939_

_Dear John,_

_Mrs. Hudson wants me to write you, even if it's only been 7 days, 4 hours and 34 minutes since we saw you off. She says you'd appreciate it._

_Not much has happened here. Mrs. H fusses more than ussual without you around, and Lestrade even asked for my help with some murders, a trail of them, John! A serial killer! It's Christmas, and a shame you're not here to enjoy it. I saw Molly again, the mortuary technician, she's nice, and I think we're friends. But I wouldn't know._

_Lestrade brought Emelia around yesterday, and I think she likes me. She pulled my hair, but Mrs. Hudson said that kids do that when they like you. Humans are strange, John, especially the miniature kind._

_So, I guess that's it, I'm sorry I'm rubbish at writing letters. Tell me everything about the ship you're on, also where are you? Mycroft won't tell me._

_I love you. Also, I thought about you, today. Not that I don't think about you every day. A different manner of thinking about you, that is._

_Sincerely Yours,_

_SW_

* * *

Mrs. Hudson hummed as she washed the dishes, feet shuffling about, hips swaying. Sherlock was quiet, silent, as he sat at her table, nose buried in a book. She grinned and scrubbed intently, tune jolly and bright. The sun was out, and it shone through her curtains in lovely rays that warmed the dark lower floor. Sherlock had taken to spending a few hours in her flat in the mornings, sipping at tea and barely nibbling at the scrummy breakfasts she cooked. 

"You know I'm going to the shops today if you'd like to come, love?" She smiled, pulling off her gloves and sitting next to him, chin resting on her hand. 

"Mm," Sherlock mumbled, completely engrossed in his reading. The older beta leaned forward to read the spine. 

"Is that appropriate to read so early in the day?"

"It's important."

" _Most Gruesome Murders of the Nineteenth Century?"_

"Important," Sherlock assured, eyes never leaving the page. Mrs. Hudson tutted and clapped the book closed, tucking it under her arm.

"Not so important as to prevent you getting some fresh air and going shopping with me,"

"What for?"

"Let's see," She scuffled to the refrigerator and picked up the list she'd placed atop it. "Produce, fishmongers, and the fabric shop because you need new shirts,"

"Can't we buy shirts?"

"Not if I can help it now up you get, and go get dressed," She gave him a smack and he grumbled, stomping up the stairs. He pulled off his dressing gown and replaced it with his tweed blazer, slipping on socks and lacing his shoes. He sat on his bed and froze. He sniffed the air, his heart racing as he shoved his face to the other half of the bed. It had only been a week and already John's musk was fading. Sure, his territory was still marked, but the sheets had lost that strong, dark, whiskey smell of John's sleepy skin. Sherlock sucked in a breath and squared his shoulders. It was alright. He was alright. He poked into the loo and opened John's cupboard, his razor and comb gone, but his bottle of aftershave still stood and Sherlock grabbed it quickly, pouring a drop onto his wrist (it tingled a bit) and sucked in a gulp of the heathery, deep musk. 

"Alright, I'm ready," Sherlock sighed as he flopped down the stairs and met Mrs. Hudson at the door, she fussed and split his hair to the side, licking her hand and slicking it across. She stepped over the threshold and Sherlock pulled the door closed. She pulled her basket up on her arm and smiled.

"Now, we need milk, but it's rather far, so we'll get your fabric first, alright?" She interlocked their elbows and pulled Sherlock along, who groaned but obeyed as they strode down the pavement. "You know, my governess taught us to sew, me and my sister, knitting too. Still have her old button box. Mrs. Turner next door keeps her buttons in a tin. A _tin_. Ridiculous-"

* * *

Sherlock stood awkwardly as Mrs. H toodled around the shop, chatting up the woman behind the counter. He inspected the large rolls of cloth, the little spools of thread in dozens of colours, a wall with packets labeled " _patterns_ ". Sherlock had never been shopping in his life. Things just sort of, happened. 

"Are you in the army?" Sherlock jumped and looked at a girl, maybe a few years younger than him, batting her eyelashes and staring up at him. He swallowed nervously and furrowed his brows.

"No, I'm not, why would I be?" She nodded and mumbled an 'oh', crossing her legs and swishing her purple skirt about, handbag held between her knees and her shoulders back- and Sherlock gasped. _Making herself look smaller, drawing attention to her chest and eyes, nervousness, oh shit!_ She was flirting with him. His mind was practically running off it's tracks. A woman, an omega, was flirting with him. 

"You're so sweet with your mum," She smiled, lipstick smearing just a tad on her pearly white teeth, "You know they say men who care for their mums make the best boyfriends," Her dimples were garishly obvious, her voice sugary sweet and Sherlock was suddenly feeling sick. His head was spinning and he thought he might pass out when Mrs. H grabbed his elbow.

"Alright, Sherlock, off we get," She gave the omega woman a polite smile and tugged him along. 

"Hope to see you again, Sherlock!" The girl cried after him and Sherlock's cheeks flared crimson. He looked to Mrs. Hudson with eyes full of shock. 

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock glared over their shoulders. She only gave him a shake of her head. 

"You're the one wearing alpha cologne dearie," Sherlock gasped and sniffed his wrist, lips turning up into unbelieving smile. 

Neither of them truly realized what had just happened.

* * *

28 August 1939

Mycroft Holmes hadn't been home in a solid week. Things were too busy, he couldn't rest even for a moment, he had to be on call. Greg understood, he really did, he knew what they were up against, he read the papers. Germany was waiting to get Italy in line before they attacked Poland, which could be any day now. Emelia, did not know any of that, and was very upset to not have her papa nearby. 

"Shh, shh, it's alright, darling, I'm right here," Greg whispered, bouncing her on his hip. Nanny had thursdays off, not that Greg minded. She wasn't nearly as much of a troublemaker as the criminal classes of London. Emelia wailed, her face a deep flush of red, cheeks streaked with tear tracks and snot dribbling down her chin. Greg's head was splitting, skin a dull grey and thick bags under his eyes.

The phone rang and Emelia only screamed, and Greg sighed, laying her in her crib in a last-ditch effort, to which she jumped up and began to clamber up over. He flapped a blanket over the top of her crib and raced to the hallway just as it reached the third ring. 

"Hello, Holmes Residence?" He panted, ears tuned to Emelia's room, she was still screaming. 

"Gregory, I need to speak with you,"

"My! Oh it's good to hear your voice, oh dear, alright, one moment," Greg dropped the phone on it's cord and fetched Emmy, pulling her on his hip. Jesus, did she ever get tired? She wailed and clawed at his shoulder as he returned to the phone and pulled it under his chin.

"Gregory! I need you to listen to me. Now." Mycroft growled, and the beta shifted on his hips. 

"My, calm down, what's going on?" 

"You and Emelia are to go to Sherinford. As soon as you can."

"You know I can't do that, My, I have work," Greg furrowed his brow, pulling a sliding Emelia back up. She hiccuped and sniffled into his shirt. 

"Gregory, this isn't up for negotiation."

"Mycroft, no. We've got a routine, you can't just upend that without explaining something. Hell, I haven't even seen you in a week!"

"Emelia is going to stay with Uncle Rudy, indefinitely."

"What, why?" Greg cocked his head and set a squirming Em down, who crawled around his feet, hitting his trouser-clad calves with open little palms. 

"You'll understand in the coming days, I really must go now, the next train leaves in an hour."

"Hang on, Mycroft, wait, we haven't even discussed this!" Greg didn't mean to shout, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"There isn't time, Gregory, I have to go, goodbye,"

"Wait! Wait! Hang on, just a minute. I love you,"

Mycroft paused. This was where Gregory hung up the phone, but he didn't. The Alpha swallowed thickly, leaning forward on his elbows, tongue heavy in his mouth. 

"I love you too,"

* * *

_23 August 1939_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_You loon, of course I want you to write me, although I can't guarantee I'll be able to return it. Maybe don't sound too excited about the serial killer? Also, I don't remember giving approval for you to be chasing down murderers, but when the cat's away and all that. Please stay out of danger._

_Speaking of nieces, I think you ought to go stay with my sister soon, you need to get out of London. Mrs. Hudson too._

_I'm happy you're, **thinking** of me, I'm thinking of you too. Constantly. I keep seeing the back of a nurse and swearing it's you! I don't think the girls appreciate being called Sherlock by accident! _

_Be good, Sherlock. Help Mrs. Hudson as much as you can. Oh, and Sherlock, stop asking where I am. Loose lips sink ships, and I'd very much like to stay above water._ _I love you, darling boy._

_Sincerely,_

_J.H.W_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your sweet comments! i love you all so much!


	29. Chapter 29

1 September 1939

_Water. Ice cold water, he was submerged, he was struggling, he couldn't swim! He can't swim, he's going to sink! His fingers grazed the sides of his prison, craggy, slimy stone he couldn't get purchase on to climb, the water was rising and he was screaming for help, tiny limbs kicking with all his might, but he was too small, he was too weak._

_"Mycroft! Mummy! somebody help!"_

_He cried, he screamed, he fought at the choppy frigid waters, hair plastered to his skin, but he was sinking he was sinking and his limbs were made of iron, he was sinking, sinking sinking and he'd never get back up, the walls of the well dissipating._

_Suddenly there were warm arms around him, warm, strong arms and Sherlock grasped with all his might to the thick green fabric of John's uniform, cheek resting on the warmth of his neck._

_"Sherlock, you've got to put more work in, come on!" John shouted, and suddenly, there was a inky film on the water, a little layer of black that covered John's golden skin with splotches of oil, his hair was covered in it and in the distance there were bullets firing._

_"I'm trying! I'm trying!"_

_"You never listen, Sherlock! You're so weak! Helpless! Help me here I can't hold us both!"_

_"I can't swim! I can't!"_

_Sherlock gasped, his nostrils flaring at the smell of the petrol, the icy water, clawing at John, trying and trying and trying and John couldn't carry them both, they were stuck, bobbing in the water and they were firing, they were firing and suddenly, the water was set alight, hot and crackling and putrid and Sherlock screamed as John on fire as well, sunny blonde hair singed black, his skin crackling and blistering and burning and-_

Sherlock gasped, his heart racing, sheets a dampened straitjacket around his body, skin a sticky mess of sweat. He fought and kicked and escaped, rolling onto the floor, groaning and shivering. He shut his eyes, clenched his fists and exhaled deeply, he was in control. He was in control. He was in control.

"Sherlock!" The omega flinched, knees drawn up defensively and Mrs. Hudson gasped, "What's happened, love? Are you alright?" 

"I'm fine!" He cried, eyes laden with heavy tears. Even through the blurry, he could see that he'd upset her, shaking and trembling and he rubbed at his eyes, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I shouted, Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine," He whispered, cheeks bleary and wet, curls sticking to his face in clumps. She nodded and came closer, kneeling down, even if her hip was angry about it. She tentatively wrapped her hands around his and smiled.

"Why don't we have some tea?" He nodded and sniffled as she pulled him up.

* * *

Sun filtered in through the small kitchen window and Sherlock couldn't shake his fear. He was helpless, he was needy, he was nothing without John. He clenched his eyes shut and pulled his shaking fingers into fists on his thighs as Hudders milled about the upstairs kitchen. Sherlock shuddered as his mind flashed with terror, he fought it, he pushed it through his mind palace, trying to find a safe place to store this monster, snarling, sizzling, oily monster. 

"Sherlock, love, can you reach this for me?" 

Sherlock looked up and nodded, dressing gown like a cape as he easily reached over her head for the indicated jar. He'd always been on the taller side for an omega, and he'd recently had a growth spurt, and now his jobs included washing, spider killing, and reaching things on high shelves. Mrs. H smiled, her soft velvety skin wrinkling into dimples and Sherlock watched intently as she measured out a tablespoon, then another, and another, mixing it into the bowl with the little blue flowers around the rim. Sherlock lay his head on his arms as he leaned onto the floury worktop, a single inky curl dropping in front of his eyes as he considered her. Baking, was evolutionary chemistry, he decided. A couple hundred years of trial and error, handed down like genetics, altered slightly every so often, and handed down again, until chemical reactions were inadvertently mastered. A silent solidarity, a line of women who each made easier the path for her daughter, and her daughter, and occasionally a son as well, he thought, smiling to himself. 

"Whenever I have bad dreams, I make my nan's chocolate biscuits, also, if I'm not mistaken, your time is coming up, so it's a double batch this morning," She smiled and Sherlock bit his lip. He hadn't even thought about his heat. His eyes wandered to the calendar over her shoulder. Let's see, if his last heat was on the 11th, one month, two months, fuck! He grumbled and threw his head down in a dramatic sigh, curls brushing on the bench.

Mrs. Hudson set a cloth over the bowl and set it in the fridge. "Oh, what's this?" She pulled out the jars in which he was storing some toes he'd swiped from Molly. Sherlock grinned as Mrs. Hudson screamed and ran, his smile weak. John would've been curious about his experiments, maybe, chastised him playfully and kissed his forehead. He closed his eyes. Just _think_ Sherlock, don't be so bloody emotional and _think_.

* * *

Greg's feet were solid ice as he sat in the presinct, hands folded on his desk, head drooping on is neck. What kind of father was he? What kind of parents were him and Mycroft? Sending Emmy away, when they should've been _with_ her. His workmates had smiled when he said he wouldn't be taking Thursdays off anymore; how brave she must be, how smart you two are, she'll be just fine. But it wasn't fine, was it? 

He groaned and scrubbed at his chin, looking into his cup of coffee. There was shouting and he looked up, Anderson was rushing into the office, helmet still on, right over to the dispatch radio before flicking the channel, turning up the volume. 

" _We regret to inform you that it seems Germany has moved forward towards Warsaw, and that our government, along with France, will be moved to send an ultimatum to Berlin. The House of Commons has approved the new Military budget proposal, and the general mobilization of troops towards the conflict is expected-"_

Anderson pulled his helmet off and looked to Greg with a paled expression. Greg only gave him a reassuring smile. Phillip was young, he didn't remember. This had all happened before, and England would be just fine. He'd only been a child when his father died, but his mother said he'd been a hero. War turned ordinary men into heroes, their sons into orphans. Hitler better be frightened, that bastard. Greg turned to the small framed photo of Emelia on his desk and swallowed thickly. He would do anything, anything, to keep her safe. He looked around the station, counting how many of them he expected to lose in the draft, how many were reservists, and sighed, scratching the back of his neck and keeping his face stoic and calm. It would be alright. 

* * *

John leaned over the clanging metal rails of the swaying ship, eyes lost in the choppy, foamy waves, his feet planted firmly on the deck. The ship creaked and John watched as each slapping wave hit at the large red cross painted on the hull. 

"Seasick, Captain?" Came a feminine voice and John's eyes looked to the blonde, sweet looking nurse that stood not so far away in her pressed white uniform and cap, her feet crossed as she smiled.

"Not at all," He grinned, "I would've joined the Navy if I wasn't a doctor,"

"We're heading for Gdansk, sir, I was told to let you know," John nodded and stepped away from the edge, turning to examine her better. She was pretty, fresh faced and blonde with lovely blue eyes and curled hair tucked up into a bun. She added sadly, "A lot of casualties and evacuations, sir, you'll be needed on triage,"

"Right," He tucked his hands into his pockets, suddenly very aware of the silver band on his third finger. "Are you on triage as well, Nurse...?" He smirked, eyes glittering.

"Morstan, Mary Morstan, and no sir, I'm not," She smiled, tucking her clipboard under her arms and turning, blushing furiously.. John shook his head.

"Shame, crying shame," He licked his lips and watched her, just a bit too much, and sniffed. A beta, but sweet and fresh like clover. He paused and looked out over the sea before following her down the metal stairs to the portside exit, his ring slipping between his callused fingers and remaining in his pocket. 

* * *

September 3 1939

Sherlock's neck was aching as he looked into his microscope, eyes fuzzy and unfocused. His body was in a state of confusion- torn between the need for oestrus and the absence of his mate, and it was painful. If he was lucky, he might be able to skip this one, and then he'd have another few months. Not that John would be home that soon, anyway. He rubbed at his clenching stomach and sighed, forehead resting on the eyepiece of the microscope. His bondbite was throbbing, and his body was screaming at him to find John. _Not much I can do about that, now shut up, I am trying to work._

He switched the slides and his bond ached again, he slapped a hand over his neck and whined, a pitiful, biological response that came through his nose in a high pitched sound of desperation. Alphas were so lucky, he thought as he groaned, a rut wasn't specific. Anything that breathed was free game when their precious knots were involved. Whereas Sherlock, well his body craved only John, his alpha, his mate. 

He slammed his fist to the worktop and keened, shoving his notes and papers to the ground. Why did John have to be such an idiot?! He could be home, he could be safe, but for some godforsaken reason he wasn't. He was out there and he could die when he had every reason not to.

_You killed his baby._

Sherlock growled at his omega, who was fighting for control. 

_You know you did it. And you lied to him. Failure, weak, God, he'd have left early if he could, just to get away from you. Meddling little housewife, imagine being chained to that? God, I wonder how much Mycroft paid him to marry you, freak._

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and hit the table a few more times, snarling and growling. He was in control. He was in control. He wasn't in control, and he fell to the floor in a heap, tearing at his notes and papers with desperate claws and wishing he could tear himself to pieces as well. Rip himself in half, halves again, and again and again until he was only dust that billowed in a beam of light. He pulled up the pamphlet Molly had given him and ripped it in half too, that lovely shredding noise echoing through his ears, his eyes flashing with that glow of destruction.

"Sherlock! Oh dear, is it starting?" Mrs. Hudson knelt down next to him and he shook his head, getting up onto his knees. 

"No, no, I think it's g-going to skip, n-no J-John, but it's punishing me first," He barely choked out before his bondbite screamed like it was on fire. He keened and leaned forward, crashing his nose into Mrs. Hudson shoulder and grasping her tight. She only cooed and rubbed his back, carding through his hair and rocking them. Soon it began to fade, and Sherlock whimpered, tear tracks drying on his cheeks. Mrs. Hudson only soothed him and pat his shoulder. "I'm sorry I made a mess," Sherlock whispered and she only chuckled.

"That's alright, dear," She helped him up onto shaky feet and bent down to sweep up the shreds of paper, "the biscuits should be cool by now, if you'd like some with your tea?" Sherlock nodded mutely and stumbled into the lounge, dropping onto the sofa in a ball and facing the wall, his back turned against the world. The black leather began to grow hot around his face, sticky and damp with tears he didn't want to fall. Mrs. Hudson soon brought tea and set it on the coffee table before turning on the wireless and moving to wash up some dishes before she stopped. Sherlock's ears perked and he sat up on the sofa, shivering and shaking.

_"I am speaking to you from the cabinet room at 10 Downing Street. This morning the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11 o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us."_

Sherlock drew his knees to his chest and his heart wrenched. "...I _have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany."_

Sherlock blinked, once. Twice. He shook his head. He knew this was happening, everyone knew this was happening. But fuck. It was happening, right now. He was frozen, frozen solid. He was going to die, John was going to die. And if John died, Sherlock would die. A broken sob fell from his lips as he closed his eyes tight. He loved John. He loved him more than anything because he had never loved before. Never. Not mummy, not Mycroft, not even Lestrade. 

"He's going to die, Mrs. Hudson, I know it. I can feel it," He whispered, suddenly aware that the elderly woman had grasped his hand tight in hers and was sitting next to him. She scowled and shook her head, patting his hand. 

"No talk like that, dearie, you'll only make it worse. You've got to fight, Sherlock, because you're strong. You're stronger than any of us, and you've got to stay strong, and be brave, for John. But for you too, love." Mrs. Hudson said firmly, their eyes locked, "Be strong for yourself, because you are not helpless, and keep that chin up," She smiled and pat his cheek. 

His heart had never felt so full, and he smiled, squeezing her hand in return. 

"I'm strong."

* * *

Sherlock sucked in a breath and approached the office. There was already a queue, so he took his place at the end and grasped his fingers together nevously, watching the ground, watching the back of the heels of the woman in front of him. He glanced up nervously at the posters on the walls, imagining Mycroft giving each smiling woman, holding a helmet or a shovel or on a tractor, the approval in his big manly study or his wretched office. The thought made him giggle, just a touch, and he bit his lip in a tiny smile before he realized he had reached the front, just below a banner that read _Auxiliary Territorial Service._

"I'd like to enlist," He said nervously, his face flush and his tongue heavy in his mouth. The woman only smirked and looked him up and down. 

"Name?" He paused, hand clasping around his ring, tummy turning in a knot. She hadn't even asked about John's approval! His head was spinning, and his lips turned into a genuine smile.

"Sherlock Holmes,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH I have been dreaming of this chapter for so long and here we are at last!!!  
> thank you so very much for reading! Please tell me what you think! <3


	30. Chapter 30

3 September 1939

 _Sherlock Holmes  
_ _volunteer O/011895 ATS_

Sherlock's breath caught as he held the paper tight in his fingers, eyes wide as he watched himself in the reflective shop windows, leaving the Territorial Service office and going back to Baker Street for his last night. His stomach fluttered like a thousand butterflies inside of him, and he looked at the Sherlock staring back from the window, in his smart looking khaki shorts and uniformed shirt and blazer. He grimaced and looked down at his bare knees, shuffling a bit in the heavy standard issue fabric. He looked silly, but when he'd asked for trousers they'd laughed in his face. He read his orders over and over, growing antsier and antsier as he made his way home. He received some amused looks as he went, and he ignored them, feeling rather important as he stepped down the street. 

He reached the big black door with golden letters and smiled, pulling out his key and pushing the door open. He looked up and heard shuffling upstairs, talking. He knit his brows together and pulled off his hat, depositing his bag of clothes by the door and taking the stairs quickly, reaching the top and eliciting and excited cry from his housekeeper.

"Oh, Sherlock, don't you look smart!" Mrs. Hudson cried, coming forward and pinching his cheek, stepping back and looking him over, pride filling his chest with warmth, "Like a real soldier." Sherlock's breath caught when he realized who was sitting in _his_ armchair, with that godawful umbrella twirling in his fingers. He opened his mouth to tell off his loathsome brother before he was interrupted. 

"But he's not a _real soldier,"_ Mycroft scowled and looked in his notebook before leering, "A telephone operator and mechanic, how charming" He leered and Sherlock fumed. Mrs. Hudson realized Sherlock was so upset and she pet his sleeve. 

"I'll bring us some tea," She gave him a pat before rushing off and leaving the Holmes’ alone.

”What are you doing here?” Sherlock growled, still standing, glaring down at Mycroft. The Alpha flashed his teeth in a smile that sent shivers down Sherlock’s back. 

"Overdue for a brotherly chat," Mycroft tucked his notebook into his inside pocket, "does John know?"

"Does John know what?" Sherlock growled, fists clenched. 

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock, does John know?" Mycroft's fist tightened around the wooden handle and he knit his brows together. 

"He'd want me to do my part," Sherlock answered, looking away and crossing his arms, feeling like a patronized child again, "Take your leave and get out of _my_ house," 

"You've put your maiden name your forms, any news for me?" Sherlock swallowed thickly, his face flushing immediately, his cheeks thumping with his pulse. 

"Shouldn't you be with Lestrade?"

"His name is Gregory, and I am here because you are being idiotic, Sherlock, as ever. Disobedient, too."

"I am no longer under your thumb, Mycroft, now go! Get out!" Sherlock shouted, snarling, his omega completely in control. A stranger in his nest, an alpha in his nest. His bond bite was throbbing, even if it was his brother. Sherlock didn't consider him family, so neither did his omega. Mycroft's frown deepened when he smelled Sherlock's defense, a foul concoction of pheromones designed to repel dangers. He stood, coughing and covering his horrendous nose with his handkerchief, remembering a few things from his school days.

_Chapter 3- Maternal and Nesting Insticts of the Omega_

_A perceived or real danger, or the presence of an unsettling scent in the home can set off a biological bout of strength, with increased circulation and momentary muscle density. An archaic instinct developed to protect young and defend territory, it can be a nasty surprise, especially when bringing home a colleague or friend to "the Mrs."_

"I'm concerned Sherlock!" 

"You aren't concerned, you're controlling, now get out of my house!"

"Sherlock, please, you need to think this through, you're not in the right frame of mind,"

"Oh, yes, I forgot, tell me again about my hormonal, hysterical mind and weakened intellect, you disgusting paperweight." Sherlock leapt and shoved Mycroft to the floor, who growled and flipped them over, pining Sherlock by the wrists, his breath foul and hot on Sherlock's skin. Sherlock bared his teeth, relishing his freedom, now that Mycroft had no claim, he held nothing back, sharply kneeing him between the legs and freeing his hands as Mycroft cringed. He pushed the butt of his hand to Mycroft's nose, the Alpha yelping and crawling backwards off of him, blood dribbling down his lip. Sherlock grinned and scrambled to his feet, his entire body glowing with defensive power. 

"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson cried, holding her frying pan over her head and gasping. "Really boys, you act like children!" She pulled Sherlock by his shirt and deposited him in the kitchen, and turned to the elder brother and gave him a withering stare.

"You have no idea what you've signed up for, Sherlock. I may be a gentleman, but my colleges are not," He bit his lip, giving Sherlock a final glare before turning and descending the stairs. Sherlock panted, breathing deep gulps of relief that Mycroft was gone before he felt regret. 

Why the hell was he feeling regret? Mycroft was not his family, he was the enemy. His archenemy, in fact. The loathsome, snarling, disgusting Alpha he regrettably shared 50% of his genetic material with. But as Sherlock felt his footfalls through the floorboards, his chest felt tight. He grumbled and flopped down onto his armchair, unceremoniously rubbing his neck across the back, covering up that horrific smell. Mrs. Hudson gave him a sympathetic look from the doorway and he only shrugged, watching out of the corner of his eye as his brother slid into the back of a sleek Rolls Royce. 

He rolled his head back and let out his breath before stepping up and rushing down the hallway into his room, riffling through John's drawers and pulling out his prize, clinking open his old cigarette case and putting one between his lips and desperately lighting a match. He sucked in that gravely relief and sighed. 

"Oh, dear, I don't think John would want you smoking, love," Sherlock glared as Mrs. Hudson followed him and pulled it away from his lips, watching an expertly formed ring form in the air in front of his flickering eyes. 

"John's not here, is he?" Sherlock snapped and sucked in another drag and closed his eyes. The elderly woman paused and crossed her arms, still watching with a sly smile.

"You and Mycroft don't look much alike do you?" She added and Sherlock made an exasperated huff.

"Yes, well, I look more like my father."

"Oh, I don't remember him from the wedding,"

"He's dead, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh," She said softly, looking down a bit as Sherlock filled his room with smoke. 

"John wants you to leave London, I think he's right," Sherlock's eyes softened.

"Oh, please, and give Hitler the satisfaction? No, you haven't seen the back of me yet, Sherlock" The omega smiled, he shouldn't have. He should've insisted she go, it wasn't safe, but he couldn't. The thought of her anywhere else turned his stomach.

"I need your help, actually," He ran a hand through his silky soft curls, "Are there scissors in the kitchen?"

* * *

Sherlock gasped when he saw his reflection. His ears felt naked, his curls cropped up tighter and neater, over his collar and above his ears. He looked, manly, almost. As if his gangling frame and feminine features could hide his secondary. Mrs. Hudson was in the sitting room, sweeping up the evidence of his beautiful locks to toss. He ran his fingers through his hair, his hands coming up empty. He swallowed thickly, turning his face back and forth, leaning over the sink. He let out his held breath and let his forehead rest on the cool glass of the mirror, a little cloud of fog beneath his nose. 

He pushed himself up and steadied, in his mind's eye remembering John's solider posture, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw, feeling like a little boy again, with bloody scissors in the bottom of the bath. 

_You can't hide what you really are._

He waved it away and strode into the front room, feeling Mrs. Hudson wrap her arms around him and squeeze. 

"Am I doing the right thing?" He whispered, his entire body numb, eyes locked on his shiny brown leather shoes. Mrs. Hudson tutted and pat his cheek. 

"Of course you are, this is a good thing you're doing Sherlock. The _right_ thing," Sherlock let out his breath and looked away, fingers fidgeting at his side. 

"I'm- I'm," He paused, "nervous." She looked at him sideways and nodded. 

"That's natural."

"What if I'm a hindrance? What if I'm-" He sputtered, and pulled tight his trembling hands his fists, "useless?" Mrs. Hudson knit her brows and shook her head at this doleful boy in her house, his eyes glowing with self-hatred.

"Stop that, Sherlock, don't think so much and be yourself."

"But that's what I am! I _think,_ I observe, I calculate." Mrs. Hudson cackled, leaning back and grasping his arm, ignoring his shocked little gasp.

"Oh, Sherlock," She smiled, patting his arm with a wrinkly, soft hand, "I know you far too well for all that," Sherlock watched her, dumbfound, and she tugged him back towards his room. "Now let's get you packed."

* * *

_4 September 1939_

_Dear John,_

~~_I'm in the army now!_ ~~

Sherlock sliced his pen across the words, his hand shaking. He looked out the window, it was dark, the first traces of daylight just beginning to sprinkle through the thick darkened clouds. A new day peeking over the horizon of chimneys and rooftops. He let the pen drop onto the desk, pulling the letter into his hands and crumpling it into a ball before shoving it onto the floor. He pulled out a second sheet and rubbed at his itchy, now horribly short head of hair.

_4 September 1939_

_John,_

_I love you. More than anything. Also,_ _I cut my hair. Well, Mrs. Hudson cut it. I'm sorry I asked where your boat is, I understand you can't talk about it. I know they aren't supposed to hurt medics, but it's still, frightening to know you're out there._

_Yours,_

_S.W._

* * *

Sherlock took in a big breath as he stepped out onto the pavement, the air cool and billowy and sending shivers down his neck. He rubbed his hand on the back of his nape and looked forlornly up at the windows of 221b. 

"Well doesn't somebody look smart?!" Came the familiar voice down the street and Sherlock gasped, eyes wide and caught as he watched a very familiar Sargent approaching. 

"Lestr-Greg, what are you doing here?" 

"My told me you were reporting today, I thought I'd come see you off, is that okay?" Greg said quickly, remembering the laundry incident. Sherlock shook his head and turned properly.

"No, of course it's okay, where's Emelia?" Sherlock bubbled excitedly and Greg itched his head awkwardly.

"Sherinford. I-uh, well, Mycroft wants her away from London," Sherlock watched him intently and furrowed his brows to see the dark circles, taught skin, day-old stubble and frowned. "But damn, Sherlock! Never pegged you for the type!" Greg pulled his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and squeezed, his face lit with a smile. He whispered a bit more intently, "I'm proud of you, sunshine," Sherlock's heart was glowing and he smiled back.

* * *

Sherlock swallowed nervously, leaning forward, duffel held tight in his hand as they approached the big red brick building. _Regent's Park Barracks_. Hudders was next to him, humming as the cab screeched to a stop. Sherlock shook like a leaf, and Mrs. Hudson pat his knee reassuringly as she opened the door, and Sherlock stepped out after her. She brushed off his shoulders and pulled up his collar over his bond bite. He gave her a smile of gratitude as Lestrade paid the cab.

He approached the building with shaking footsteps and Mrs. Hudson followed dutifully, her purse tucked on her elbow. A grumbling army green van pulled up to the big black gate, and the driver gave him a whistle. He approached a man standing by a door with a clipboard, eyes avoiding him, cheeks flaring with blood. The Alpha smirked, eyes raking over Sherlock before he set his feet open and licked his lips. Sherlock's stomach retched.

"ATS, right?" Sherlock nodded shyly and the man only chuckled, flipping through his list. 

"I'm Sherlock," He said softly, eyes glowing as the man looked down the sheet. The Alpha looked up at him with a smug grin.

"Only got one of your kind, sweetheart," Sherlock's heart raced in his veins and the man nodded and checked off his name, pointing with the end of his pencil to a building inside the wrought iron gate. "That building, room 9, you're reporting for training at fifteen hundred." Sherlock nodded and grasped his bag's handle nervously before turning and giving Mrs. H a tentative smile. She only grinned and swatted at him.

"Go on, you loon, get to it," He nodded, turning, before he raced back around and gave her a kiss. She laughed and nudged him away. He gave Lestrade a tiny wave before he passed through the open gate, his whole body glowing. He quickly made his way down a path and into the directed building, climbing the staircase and finding a dark haired woman in a uniform like his loitering outside of the room labeled 9. 

"Oh! Hi! I'm Janine!" She cried in an Irish accent, grabbing his hand and shaking it, "Do you have any idea what we're supposed to be doing?" She whispered conspiratorially, and Sherlock shook his head. 

"I'm Sherlock," He said softly and looked to the door, "and I think I'm supposed to go there,"

"Oh! Me too! I was just so damn nervous I didn't go in," She beamed as he turned the knob, revealing two small bunks and a single table between them. Janine grinned and flopped down onto the left one, immediately slipping out of her brown heels and lying down, her stocking-covered toes curling back and forth as she observed the ceiling. Sherlock sat gingerly on the right, looking out of their small window down at the courtyard, swallowing nervously. 

"So, you're an omega, huh?" She leaned up on her side and beamed at him, and Sherlock nodded shyly, pulling his knees to his chest. "Pity, you're rather handsome." Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile and he laid back, looking up at the ceiling. 

"Do you have a boyfriend?" She said excitedly, and Sherlock shook his head, and before he could elaborate she sighed exasperatedly. 

"My mother only let me do this to meet men," She looked sad, "My ex was a real bastard, and to think I almost married him!" She huffed and Sherlock swallowed nervously, looking down at his ring and clenching his hand. 

"Oh my god, you liar! You're engaged!" She cried, reaching forward and grasping his hand, "Ah! That's so cute, what's his name?" Sherlock sputtered and flinched from her over zealousness. 

"I- uh, I'm married, actually, to John," He mumbled, rolling the ring around his finger, and smiling in spite of himself, "His name is John,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love u all so much yay


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shamelessly stole from this actual account of Gladys Newlyn, who was in the ATS, feel free to check it out!:
> 
> www.bbc.co.uk/history/ww2peopleswar/stories/63/a2062063.shtml

Sherlock stood awkwardly off to the side of the crowd of girls gathered. It was cool and breezy as they waited by a large car park of lorries, the girls giggling and waving at the soldiers on the other side of the grassy center of the compound. He only looked at his shoes.

"Hi! You must be Sherlock," He looked up and found himself nose to nose with a blonde omega, older and taller than him, tan with big brown eyes like Lestrade, clearly 19, unbonded, uses too much perfume to compensate. "I'm Vanecia, your commanding officer, sort of," She smiled and Sherlock swallowed nervously, "You don't have to salute me, just Commander Mortimer," Sherlock nodded, eyes filled with worry. She didn't seem to notice, linking their arms and introducing him to the group.

"It's so nice to have an omega boy finally." Vanecia held him tight and turned them around, pointing to the girls one by one, "This is Helen, Margie, Agatha, Mary one, Mary two, Holly, Elanor, and Beatrice," Sherlock gave a tentative wave as they all turned to look him over. A plump ginger girl, Agatha, came and touched his hair, floofing up his curls.

"God, you're lucky, we have to keep our hair up above the collar, and we're not allowed ribbons,"

"He's a boy, Agatha, don't be stupid,"

"He's not a _real_ boy, so shut up Beatrice," Sherlock winced and blushed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, looking to Janine for help.

"I think he's beautiful," Elanor said finally, as if it were a judicial decree. She received some nods of affirmation before they were all interrupted by a sharp whistle, everyone scattering into formation, facing front. Sherlock followed their example and took his place at the end, watching nervously as a large, older woman with her hair pushed up tightly under her hat, a riffle slung over her shoulder and a sharp green uniform stood before them, looking them over. Sherlock gawked at the sight of it, was he going to shoot a gun? The thought sent an excited and nervous shiver down his back. 

"At ease." Sherlock knew what that one meant, relaxing his feet to shoulder width apart, "I see we have some new faces, I'm Commander Mortimer," Her eyes found Sherlock's and he swallowed nervously as she looked him over, unsure if he should look away, look forward, look down? His cheeks flared pink and she gave him a chuffed smirk. "Your role in the Teritorial Army is one of support, but you are in no way unimportant." She looked at Sherlock seriously. "Alright, let's get to it, ladies,"

* * *

Sherlock groaned, slumping with the sandbag on his shoulder. He strode across the pavement and deposited it on the ground by Janine and Vanetia, who were stacking them along the walls, before returning to the parked green lorry and getting a new one from Agatha, who gave him a chuckle as he grumbled.

"This is _boring_ ,"

"Not quite what you expected, huh?" He gave his eyes a bit of a roll and nodded. 

"Not exactly," 

"Well, you're lucky. We're getting shipped off to France, I hear,"

"What?" Sherlock's eyes glowed and he adjusted the rough bag on his shoulder, mouth hung open, eyes glimmering with excitement, "really?"

"Yep. Just as soon as we finish basic training. Now hurry up, you're the muscle around here," Sherlock laughed. He was hardly muscle, and in fact, he bet two thirds of his comrades could lift more than him, but he took a second sandbag anyways, giving her a challenging smile. 

"Well, the muscle is still _bored_ ," Sherlock's neck bristled when he heard a whistle behind them and approaching footsteps. He turned to see two men coming, looking rather pleased with themselves.

"Never seen a slick in uniform before!" The other man laughed, as if this were comedic gold, and Sherlock flushed, eyes dropping to his feet as he continued his work. 

"What would you pay to get a good whiff of that every night?"

_Just ignore them, ignore it, it's transport, I don't care what they say_

"W'd'ya say we _tie the knot,_ eh sweetheart?" The man was closer, closer still and Sherlock could feel his breath, it was hot and Sherlock couldn't move he couldn't move and the man smelled like eels and beer and he was close, too close and- Sherlock screetched as the man pinched his arse, reeling around and dropping the sandbag, sending the tan course contents spilling across the cobbled street. He gasped, his entire body rigid with fear. He shut his eyes tight, trembling like a leaf.

_Idiot! Idiot, do something! Don't be so bloody weak!_

"Oh, he likes that, eh Maurice?"

"Definitely,"

"Hey, excuse me!" Sherlock gasped as Vanecia shouted, "Get lost, we don't need your help,"

"Oh, you're bratty, huh sweetheart,"

"Leave him alone, _now."_

"And who's gonna make me, blondie?" He laughed, sniffing her as well.

"Is there a problem here?" Sherlock winced as the Commander approached down the pavement, and when the men glanced her rifle Sherlock could smell their unease. He peaked his eyes open. "I'll have you move on along, please, thank you gentlemen,"

Sherlock held his breath, waiting for something to happen, when the men just turned and left, giving him a wink and a rude gesture for his troubles. Sherlock choked out a relieved sigh, looking to his superior in gratitude, but she'd already turned around.

"Miss. Scott, we'll need to have these two buildings done before you report back, we have an exercise at 1800"

"Yes, ma'am,"

* * *

8 September 1939

There was barely room for walking on board HMHS Paris, the floor covered with cots and gurneys, and John's newest patient was very uncooperative, his leg was mangled and broken, drizzling dark blood and staining his torn trousers. The doctor expertly cut up the fabric and pulled it to the sides, getting a better look at an infected mortar wound. The Pole fought and kicked and groaned and John pat his shoulder and gave him a sharp look. 

"Sir, please, just lie back, I need to take a look at your leg,"

_"Moja córka jest w Warszawie, jest sama, a my jesteśmy Żydami, zabiją ją, zabiją!"_

"Sir, I don't speak polish, please, just lie down,"

_"musisz coś zrobić! jesteś naszym sojusznikiem, musisz nam pomóc!"_

"Nurse, can you handle this, I need to move on," John growled, standing and marching to the next cot as a nurse followed him, giving the infected man some water. If he refused treatment, John didn't have time to force him. Better to do no harm and move on to someone he could help. He groaned as the ship rocked, the smell of sick permeating the air as he knelt next to the next Polish solider, who seemed in better shape than the last, his face badly burned, holding some gauze to it. John gave him a smile and took the gauze from his hands, eyeing the scarring and hints of blood. 

"Don't cover this, alright, or it'll be infected," John urged, taking the gauze from the confused looking man, who was frightfully skinny. The man didn't argue much when John cleaned his wounds, and he allowed himself to be lied back for rest. The blond captain wiped his forehead and continued his rounds, the poor sods. Some of them were from the _cavalry_ , a completely useless defense against a line of German tanks, and it was appalling the damage being done. Warsaw still fought back, but it wouldn't last long, the only unoccupied city in Poland, with the Germans to the west and the Soviets to the east...

"Doctor Watson!" Came the shout from the other side of the room as a solider was carried in, losing blood by the minute. John ran his fingers through his hair and stepped over a dozen gurneys to reach his destination. 

Just a few days in and the war already seemed so horribly long. 

* * *

_12 September 1939_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Oh my darling, I miss you so much. Why haven't you written as of late? The boys'll start to wonder if I'm just making you up! How are things at home? Is Mrs. Hudson feeding you? Tell her she's fired if I come home and you're still skin and bone._

_I must say, I'm really rather grateful we had that picture taken of you. Gives me something concrete to,_ **think** _about, all alone at night, on a ship in the middle of the sea..._

_I love you, my dear boy, please write to me soon, and get your photographs developed so you can send me some more._

_Your Husband,_

_J.H.W_

* * *

Comander Mortimer smiled as she refreshed her cuppa, sipping at the disgusting regulation tea and bracing her nostrils, giving the blond Captain a glance. 

"And you're sure they're up to it? Didn't you just get two new volunteers?" He gave her a look and Louise wasn't having it.

"They'll be ready, Sebastian, I promise you. They're smart, especially the new boy,"

"Oh, yes, I've heard about him, that's for sure," Louise raised her eyebrow inquizitively, "You know how the Alphas get with them," She bit back a laugh and sipped her tea.

"I should like to say I don't, but then I'd be lying. Right. They'll be ready, I promise you."

"They ought to have their gas mask drills, and maybe a day on the range,"

"You want them to shoot?" Louise almost choked, "they're mechanics, not foot soldiers."

"Nothing like that, Louise," Sebastian grinned, "just a trial by fire,"

* * *

14 September 1939

Sherlock ran his fingers through his slightly sweaty, soft chocolate locks, leaning with his elbows on his bare knees as they thundered along in the back of the lorry, the other girls chatting away, Vanetia in the drivers seat. He smiled a bit, exhausted, but still happy. He felt, safe. Very safe, with them. They had his back, he had theirs. 

No wonder John liked this so much. _John._ His heart leapt in his chest, throat catching at the thought, bondbite aching something awful. He put a hand over his shirt collar, hoping to soothe it.

"So do you have a boyfriend?" Agatha leaned in and Sherlock blushed, opening his mouth before Janine jumped in.

"No, he doesn't he's-"

"Single!" Sherlock interjected, stuffing his hand in his pocket and slipping off his ring. Janine looked at him with her mouth hung agape and he gave her a sharp pleading look that said, _don't say anything please_. She shut her mouth but furrowed her brows at him. His secret was safe for now. 

"Well, you won't be for long, an 18 year old, unbonded male omega? We better keep him out of sights or we won't have any men to ourselves!" Vanecia said over her shoulder and the girls laughed. Sherlock gave a fake smile, his insides burning with horrible guilt. He forgot that he said he was 18. The woman he'd enlisted with hadn't said anything, but he knew she didn't believe him. He wasn't even fully grown.

"My brother's an omega, he got married at 12, can you believe that?" Beatrice added. 

"It's so cruel, don't you think, Sherlock? I would rather die than have an arranged marriage," Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but shut it, his heart sinking in his chest. 

"Oh you're just saying that because you can't get any men, Agatha,"

"Shut up Beatrice,"

"Hey! Be nice! Or I'll report you!" Vanecia glared at them in the mirror with her best impression of the commander and everyone laughed, everyone except Sherlock, who looked out the back of the van, watching the street as it rolled beneath them, stone after stone after stone, the conversation fading away from his ears, just the hum of the engine beneath him, the jostle of his ankles as they went over the practically ancient street. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, his stomach wretching with guilt and pain as he leaned his head back against the metal of the bench. John, god, where was John? What was he doing? Acting as if John hadn't saved him, as if John didn't complete him.

Right? He was nothing without John. He was. He was pathetic, and lucky that John even looked at him at all. John was perfect. John wouldn't lie like this, hell! He hadn't even told John he'd joined up! Lying, sneaking around, manipulating. What sort of ungrateful little bitch was he?

"Sherlock we're back, are you asleep?!" Janine whispered, shaking his shoulders. His eyes snapped up to meet hers and he shook his head, standing quickly and hitting his head on a beam.

"Ah! Oh, I- I was just thinking, sorry," Sherlock hopped out and held out his hand for Janine who laughed and took it as she clambered down, careful not to flash anyone up her skirt. 

The air was sweet, soft and gentle on Sherlock's skin as autumn approached, a slight mist coming up from the damp grass. He smiled and sucked in a breath, stepping down off the back of the lorry and itching the sides of his hair beneath his cap, pulling a tiny bunched curl out to play with between restless fingers. 

"What are we doing out here?"

"Some sort of exersize, I'm not sure really," They hurried to catch up to the group, and Sherlock could see a tall, broad and blond man just ahead, with curly blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. 

_John._

_No, shut up, that's not John. He doesn't even look like John, you idiot._

"What are we doing here, ma'am?" Vanecia asked the Commander, who stood with a smug grin and raised her eyebrows. 

"You'll find out soon enough," She lead them closer to the Alpha, who stood waiting for them, and Sherlock could tell he was a captain. 

_John!_

_IT'S NOT JOHN!_

"For those of you who are new, this is Captain Moran, you don't have to salute him, but it's courteous," The alpha smiled and gave them a nod, his eyes fixated on Sherlock. The omega blushed, a shiver running down his spine as a thick, masculine woody scent filtered through his nose, his body tensing at the smell of an Alpha. Sebastian smirked a bit when he noticed the rather adorable blush on those pale, sharp cheekbones, raking his eyes over his tiny, gangly form. God, this boy should be illegal. 

"It's nice to see fresh faces, especially such beautiful ones," 

* * *

_14 September 1939_

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_I have so much to tell you and I miss you so much! Today, well, today was the best day of my life so far I think. I have eight new friends! eight! The girl I room with, Janine, she's nice. She's not like any girl I've met before, and not just because she's from Ireland. Alright, partially because she's from Ireland. We've already finished out gasmask drills, which far more boring than it sounds, I assure you, and we've done loads of drills and helping out fortifying buildings. But today,_ today _!_

 _It was so beautiful outside, cool breezy weather, and we reported to the place where the lorries were waiting. Where did we think we were going? We climbed in, bantering and chatting about god knows what. An exercise, my commander said, (oh, I forgot to mention her, she's rather nice, a bit firm but she reminds me of you, bossing me about) and we were all so excited. Captain Moran said "live amo" and that sounded exciting and so wonderfully not boring so I was jittery as we drove to our destination. It took hours, Mrs. H,_ hours _._

_Stopping at an area of woodland, very sparsely planted, I thought - where would we hide? We were told to walk between the string markers and just keep walking. Nothing happened for a while, until almost beside us was the first explosion. You can't imagine the screams and yells that came from this bunch of "hardened" girls I share rooms with. I'll admit, that maybe I was a bit frightened myself at first. We ran and fell into potholes, and collided with trees and bushes as thunder flashes were thrown at us, and the gunfire was so loud and frightening, it just went on and on!_

_At the end of the exercise we lined up for the trip back to our billet, and what a sorry sight we were. I myself had skinned knees and the girls stockings were shredded, muddy shoes, hats adrift, and the girls bootlaces all came undone! The ones they use in their hair to keep it 2 inches above the collar, and they dangled all around their faces._

_"Hitler would have died laughing at us", Margie had said. I wish he would._

_In the billet's bathroom, painted in the bath is a line - Ordinary Ranks 5 inches, Officers 8 inches. The question we asked ourselves, as we soaked in 5 inches (!) of water, was, "Would we be any good at a barricade?"_

_My answer: probably not. But we're being sent to France anyway._

_Also! I've passed my first driving test, and I already know how to fix most problems the damn things can throw at me, all the girls are jealous and that's a bit not good, but I'm enjoying it._ _And we started learning to work the switchboard, which is rather repetitive, but still interesting for now._

_Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I miss you so much. And your biscuits. The food is dreadful._

_Love,_

_Sherlock_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this wasn't boring, I tried to spice it up, I promise things are going to get even spicier! 
> 
> I love you all so much ~rory


	32. Chapter 32

20 September 1939

Sherlock lay awake, his eyes open and glowing as he watched the ceiling, his mind palace locked firmly locked. They left tomorrow for France, to billet with the Expeditionary Force. He looked over to Janine, who was likewise awake and lie on her side, eyes closed, before turning to their tiny window and looking at the stars- fogged over with thick clouds, but a few little lights straggled through. Somewhere, in the middle of the sea, John might look up and see the same shapes and sparkling dots as Sherlock. That is if he was still in the Northern Hemisphere, which Sherlock was fairly sure of. Sherlock sat up on his cot, rubbing at his hair and holding the back of his nape in his hands, resting his forehead in his bent knees, his own breath fogging on his skin. Sleep was a strange thing. To cut oneself off and go entirely below, deep into the dark abyss, where the subconscious could send anything at him and he couldn't control it. 

_John._

John would be so cross, so very cross if he knew what Sherlock had done, where he was going tomorrow. John would hate him forever if he knew the secrets Sherlock had kept from him. 

_You killed his baby, you ran away._

_You're worthless._

Sherlock sucked in a breath and bit his lip, rubbing his forehead against his forearm, tears filling his eyes, rubbing them across his skin and trying to think of something else, anything else.

Pistons, carborator, crank shaft. Red wires, blue wires. Radio waves, signals, SOS.

dot dash dash dash(J), dash dash dash (O), dot dot dot dot (H), dash dot (N), he tapped it out on his knee with his finger, smiling sadly before tapping on his bondbite,

.. (I)

.-.. --- ...- . (L O V E)

-.-- --- ..- (Y O U)

"Sherl," He looked up quickly to see Janine staring at him, with something between sadness and worser still, pity in her deep brown eyes. Sherlock held back a snap and lifted his fingers from his neck. "Sherl, does John know you're here? I saw your mail, it had a woman's name on it, I wasn't spying I promise," Sherlock hung his head and shook it, missing the way his hair would brush his ears when he did that. 

"No," Sherlock whispered, soft and coarse and just on the edge of breaking, "John doesn't know." 

Silence. 

"You miss him."

Sherlock scoffed, hugging his knees, thumbing over the scrapes on the top of them.

"Why do I miss him? Why do I love him, Janine, I don't think I want to,"

The silence grew thicker, and Sherlock cleared his throat of pesky tears that were building inside of him. 

"He's older, he's rich, he's kind. He's perfect for anyone else. But I never even wanted it, I don't know if I want it now," His fingers grazed his pinkish scar, "I just wanted away from my brother, I was so naive, I didn't realize, it's forever. And it's not forever for him! He, he can bite as many whores as he wants, and I'll always be his little creature, his possession,"

Sherlock trembled, and his cot creaked as Janine sat beside him, pulling his fingers into her hands and holding them. She was warm, really warm and Sherlock's head fell onto her shoulder a sob escaped his throat. 

"I love him, Janine."

She was about to respond, when there was a knock at the door, and Janine furrowed her brows, patting Sherlock's knee before standing and opening it. Vanecia stood, dressed to the nines her civilian kit, a red and white polka dot blouse and red skirt, with a single strand of pearls around her neck, grinning with big white teeth. 

"The girls and I are going dancing, to celebrate, be dressed in ten minutes," She swung on her heel and giggled, and Janine turned, clapping excitedly and pulling a stubborn Sherlock off the cot and wiping away his stray tears. 

"I can't go, Janine, I think I'll just stay," He complained as she riffled through his bag.

"No, you're coming, you'll feel better with a drink and some nice music, now get undressed and put these on," She tossed him his clothes and Sherlock grumbled as she set about doing her hair. 

"But-" She fixed him with a glare that made it clear there'd be no arguments, and Sherlock rolled his eyes before unbuttoning his pyjamas, "Yes ma'am,"

* * *

Sherlock and Janine walked arm and arm into the brisk night, finding the crowd of dance-goers, only three other girls, near the black metal fence of the barracks, who waved them over. Sherlock felt silly, dressed in his blue button down and tight-fitting tan trousers, with no jacket and his lucky blue ribbon around his neck where a beta or alpha might wear a tie, donning his regulation shoes because he didn't have any others. Janine had brushed his hair out, silky and soft and she'd tugged a bit harder than necessary while ranting about how easy he had it and how male hair was unfairly softer and less greasy. 

They caught up to the girls and soon they were a flurry of hair and perfume and heels clacking on the pavement as they headed to their destination, a pub where all the men at Regent's Park congregated, and had a live band sometimes, and the drinks weren't too expensive. 

The whole room smelt of alcohol, sweat and something warm that Sherlock couldn't identify, and his senses were under attack as music, laughter, glassware clinking, whistling, all filled his ears and he gasped.

"It's a bit loud!" He shouted, but he was barely heard.

"What?" Janine smiled and tugged his arm, "I need a drink," Sherlock let himself be dragged along to the bar as Janine got some whiskey or something, knocking it back and grinning, turning her attention to the men leaning against the wall to their left. 

"Right, catch of the day, let's take our pick," She said into Sherlock's ear and he knit his brows incredulously as she evaluated them, "I think I'll take the ginger in the corner," Sherlock looked at the indicated solider, who was a bit on the short side but had a pretty face, before turning to speak into her ear. 

"He's a violent type, Janine, he beat up his girlfriend just an hour ago, who, oh look, right there" Sherlock pointed to a meek looking black-haired girl who slouched in the corner outside his circle of alphas.

"How do you know that?" Sherlock quirked his lip and cupped his hand around her ear in a whisper. 

"bruises on his knuckles, match the ones on her cheek bones, he's had three drinks already, look at his fingers shaking," Janine gasped, looking at Sherlock, whose eyes were glowing with a silver seriousness. 

"Right, not that one, what about his friend?" 

"Mm, compulsive cheat,"

"Yeah well, I'm not looking for anything too serious," she whispered and Sherlock blushed a bit prudishly. "It's just dancing, _mother_ , alright, he's looking at us, dance with me, get him interested,"

"What? But I-" Sherlock whined as she tugged him over to the floor, and they seamlessly started dancing, he was quite good after all, and Janine smiled as the music picked up, a bit of trombone flaring through the laughter. Sherlock pulled her out into a spin, and she burst into giggles. There was a tap on his shoulder and Sherlock turned to see the cheater alpha, with his thick dark hair and quirked grin, looking like the cat that got the cream.

"Can I swoop in here?" Sherlock nodded mutely, blushing furiously as Janine wrapped her arm around the Alpha's shoulder, and he put one hand on her hip. The small boy smiled a bit as she mouthed _'thank you!'_ and stood idly for a moment, taking in the sights before a warm hand found it's place on it's back, working around to his waist and Sherlock gasped as he was suddenly being danced with, his hand locked in a firm dry grasp. He looked up, cheeks a deep scarlet and blinked. Captain Moran.

"Don't sweat it, Holmes," The Captain whispered, leaning his cheek in close and Sherlock could smell his alpha, like bark and grass and damp dirt, he could see the graze of his daily stubble, bright blonde on his tanned, scruffy jaw. 

"I, uh-"

"I wouldn't want you dancing alone, besides," The captain paused, tiliting his head to the side and looking at Sherlock with raised eyebrows, "You were getting some, let's say, unrespectable attention," The Captain turned them, guiding Sherlock until he was facing the other corner, where some dodgy looking Alphas were practically drooling into their lager watching him. 

"Oh, I- uh, thanks,"

"No problem," Moran said as if it were nothing, leading a little gracelessly, his hand firm on Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's tongue was heavy, his tastebuds bitter and his head dizzy. It was loud, really loud, his ears were ringing with laughter and music and it was thumping through the floorboards, through his blood, faster and faster and he was dancing with notJohn and notJohn was too close and he smelled really good and his tummy was doing cartwheels. 

"Are you alright, Holmes?"

"Yeah- I'm-" Sherlock stepped away, but his waist was firmly locked and he was cheating and he was cheating on John and he couldn't breathe! His lungs were tight and it smelled like beer and he couldn't breathe and-

"Hey, woah, woah, alright, we're getting some air," Sherlock was blurry as the hand on the small of his back led him through the dance, the music was getting louder, then quieter and Sherlock was cold, he was cold and he shivered. Something warm was around his shoulders and he looked up, sharp green eyes were staring at him, someone was patting his cheek. 

"Holmes, y'alright? Take a deep breath, that's an order," Sherlock sucked in a wobbly breath and blinked, his vision focusing. "There you are, sweetheart, you gave me a fright,"

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, realizing he was wrapped in the superior officers coat. "I'm sorry, I think I'm going back, I shouldn't have come," He shrugged off the tan woolen thing and stepped before a strong dry hand held his shoulder and pulled him back. 

"Let me walk with you, stay here while I tell your friends where you've gone off to, alright?" Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. _You danced with a strange alpha, and now we're walking home with him? ARE YOU INSANE?_

Sherlock shivered, his insides dark and cold as he looked at his feet on the dirty ground, feeling dirty himself. The side door creaked open with a roar of sound before it clicked closed again.

"Right, let's go," Moran nodded and began walking and Sherlock followed, feet seeming to move of their own volition as he stumbled after him onto the street. 

"I don't need this coat," Sherlock mumbled, shrugging it off one shoulder in an offer.

"No, keep that on until we're back. It's chilly and damp, where are those self-preservation instincts?" _If I had any, I wouldn't be here._

Moran giggled, hand stuffed in his pockets, looking over at the small, beautiful boy wrapped in his jacket. Sherlock blushed, looking over with a quizical look, looking down, a single cropped curl falling onto his forehead as they walked. 

"So who is he?" Sherlock looked up and gasped, his feet frozen to the pavement. 

"Who, sir?"

"Oh come on, I can smell a bonded omega any day," Sherlock nodded and rubbed a spot on the ground with his toe before a warm hand found it's way on his shoulder. "Most people aren't familiar with a male omega scent, and I won't say anything if you don't want me to."

"I'm sorry I hid it, sir- it's just, he doesn’t even know I’m here, if he did...” Sherlock trailed off, looking down, eyes flickering over ground, glowing a pale moonlit blue. 

”I can imagine,"

“he’s not bad, he’s wonderful. I love him. I just, I needed to do this.” 

"I know." He tucked his hand in his pocket and smiled. 

"I miss him a lot, sir," Sherlock said quickly and Moran nodded.

"I'd say it gets easier but then I'd be lying," Sherlock nodded, smiling to himself as they walked, tucking his hand into his pocket, slipping on the ring that he kept there and feeling it- cool and silver and perfectly fit, with the initials _J.H.W_ touching the vein that went straight to his heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your support! <3 <3 <3 sorry this chapter was so short


	33. Chapter 33

24 December 1939

Mrs. Hudson smiled softly to herself as she lit candles in 221b, reaching up over the mantle and humming a few Christmas carols, her hip's ache dull as this was her favourite day of the year. London was frozen, chilled to the bone and Martha wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, shuffling her feet towards the hearth, which crackled with a permeating, soft warmth. 

"Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Hudson, you didn't have to," Gregory said, sipping his drink and taking a seat in Sherlock's armchair, a sweet smile on his face. Mrs. H grinned and pat his knee.

"Oh of course, of course, you two are family," She gave Mycroft a sideways glance, who sat on her sofa, rubbing his temples drearily. 

"It took some creative persuasion to get him to come," Gregory whispered, winking and Martha gasped, swatting at him with her tea towel. 

"You two behave yourselves, and I'll see if the food's ready," She got up and shuffled away, and Gregory's smile slid from his features as he rubbed his hands through his greying hair. There was a silence and Greg knocked back another glass of scotch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and holding back tears. Their first Christmas as a family, and Emelia wasn't even here. Mycroft stood, his shoes shining in the firelight as he approached his weary husband, wrapping a hand over his shoulders and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

"You're worried about her," Was all the alpha said, caressing Greg's nape with his soft, powerful hands. He nodded, looking dolefully into his empty glass. "You shouldn't be,"

"How can I not be? Aren't you worried?" Mycroft tensed, his eyebrows raising in defeat and he slid into the armchair opposite.

"There's lots of work to do, sometimes I don't notice," Gregory nodded, rolling the glass in a circle, the last drops of scotch spread evenly, his heart aching.

"Any word from Sherlock?" He looked up, and Mycroft scoffed, twirling his umbrella. 

"Certainly not, but I did get word from Dr. Watson," Gregory's eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. "Asked me to 'look after' my brother," 

"He doesn't know yet?"

"No, he does not." 

The room filled with silence that felt like ice on Mycroft's skin. Silly man, an unprecedented anti cyclone, along with frigid temperatures. That's why it was so cold. 

* * *

_A spotty, teenage Mycroft sighed as the car pulled up to his house, it's grey brick facade looming over him as he petrieved his suitcase from the boot of the car and turned to his parent's butler. "Hughes, are my parents at home?"_

_"His Lordship is away, and Lady Violet is resting, I can let her know you've arrived if it's that important,"_

_"No, no, don't bother her. Where's Sherlock?"_

_"He's resting as well, he's caught cold, sir," Mycroft nodded, and entered the foyer, eyeing the ginormous Christmas tree, perfectly decorated, with servant-wrapped gifts scattered beneath it._

_The floor boards of the ancient house creaked beneath Mycroft as he snuck forward, the door hinges whining as he gently pushed into his little brother's room. He poked his head in, pulling of his school hat and stealthily coming closer to the sleeping lump beneath the covers that was his baby brother, the room filled with white light from the snow dusted window panes. He gingerly sat on the edge of his brother's bed, nudging him softly until the floof of chocolate curls stirred and a tiny little head poked up, fists rubbing at his pale blue eyes._

_"Myc'oft! You're home!" He squealed and wrapped around Mycroft like a sea anemone, jumping up into his arms and the older boy laughed._

_"Happy Christmas, brother mine,"_

_”Can we play pirates Myco'ft?”  
_

_"It's snowing, dear brother, and I hear a rumor you have a cold,"_

_"Do not!" He rubbed at his runny, shiny red nose, eyes wide and pleading, "I want to play!" Mycroft leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his curls, petting his back as the 4, soon to be 5 year old boy crawled into his lap, his snot dribbling onto Mycroft's uniform. "Nobody else p'ays with me,"_

_"What about nanny?"_

_"She doesn't like me, she says I'm naughty, and she makes me eat gross food and and- I want you to come home and stay and then we can play pirates all the time, and have chocolate."_

_"Sherlock, I can't stay, how about I talk to father about sending you to school soon, so you won't be alone, does that sound nice?"_

_"Can't I come wif' you?" Mycroft laughed and Sherlock furrowed his tiny brows, grasping tight to his jacket._

_"No, Sherlock, you have to stay,"_

_"Don't leave me again, Myc'oft," Sherlock whispered, and Mycroft sighed, laying him back down and feeling his forehead. Poor thing was burning up. He pet his head and lulled sweet things as Sherlock fell asleep, his mouth slightly ajar and the smallest of snores squeaking out of his stuffy nose._

_"I love you, Sherlock, and I promise, we shall have the happiest of Christmases," Mycroft pressed a second kiss to his forehead, laying a protective hand on Sherlock's shoulder and tucking his quilt up around his neck._

* * *

25 December 1939

"Captain Watson! Sir, it's freezing out here, there's whiskey inside!" Came the shout from the portside door, the fading sounds of drunken carol singing filtering out into the frigid night, and Captain John Watson shook his head, leaning on the rails and watching the stars. 

"I'll be in a minute,"

"Sir?" The dark haired corporal approached him, standing to the side and looking up where his superior's gaze was fixed. 

"I cheated on him,"

"Um, who sir?"

There was a silence as the Captain wrung his hands, his ring glimmering in the moonlight. 

"Oh,"

"He hasn't written in months," 

"Well, it could've gotten lost in the post sir, these things happen all the-" The babbling solider was cut off by a look that spoke volumes and he shut his mouth, scratching the back of his neck, "I'm sorry sir,"

"I keep thinking, maybe I was too harsh with him, when I left," He paused, kicking the rails with a ringing clang, "Maybe if I'd just, maybe if I could've done something different, or maybe if I hadn't been so forceful, God, I practically coerced him to marry me."

The corporal didn't speak, he just watched the dark, icy Baltic Sea as it clapped against the metal hull, the groaning ship rocking back and forth. He nodded in a silent agreement before looking back to the closed port door. 

"You'll figure it out, sir, if you love someone, you figure it out." John looked to the side at the kind-eyed young man who stood beside him. 

"What was your name?"

"Murray sir, Bill Murray," John held out his hand and they shook firmly. 

"Nice to meet you son, now forget everything I said,"

"Yes, sir,"

"Oh go on, drink up lad, you've earned it," John gave him a quirked smile and pointed him towards the door with his chin, and the corporal smiled and pat the railing before rushing off, and the smile faded from John's face, his chest tight and his fists clenched with white knuckles. 

* * *

Sherlock felt a frown tugging on his lips as he got to to work changing the tyres on the lorry, his breath fogging in the air and the steam crystallizing on his rose-coloured cheeks. He spared a glance to the sky, overcast and dreary, and Sherlock shivered, wrapping himself tighter in his coat, rubbing his forearms to heat them. He fell to his knees in the snow, pushing down on the lever and trembling with cold. It was so damn cold all the time, and he would find out later it was the coldest winter Europe had seen since 1895. 

"Sherlock, come on, it's Christmas," Janine groaned and Sherlock shook his head, pulling out his wrench and starting work loosening the nuts. "We haven't moved in weeks, why do the tyres need changing right now?" 

"It's better to rotate them, less chance of a flat later, and with the cold weather..." Sherlock waved his wrench in the air to illustrate and Janine gave him a pitied glance. 

" _Sherl_ ," 

"No! No, I have to do this, I have to-" Sherlock's breath caught, something horrible and viscous clawing at his throat, his eyes blurring with heavy tears, and he dropped his wrench into the snow, his hands shivering violently. 

"You're having an affair, two of them, with betas, in our billet, look at the wrinkles on your trousers-" Janine gave him a smirk and shook her head fondly.

"Love, you can't do this to yourself," Janine knelt next to him, pulling him into a tight hug. "Now there's roast and Agatha is going to eat all of it if we don't stop her," Sherlock bit back a smile, looking up at his friend and swiping at the tears that drizzled down his cheeks. 

"Roast sounds good," 

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," 

"Joyeux Noel," He whispered, taking one more look onto the frozen plain, brushing the snow from his uniform and turning to follow his friend, mumbling so quiet he could barely hear himself, "Joyeux Noel, John,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you enjoyed this! <3 thank you for your support also, this fic now has 69, 666 words lol


	34. Chapter 34

_9 January 1940_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I didn't have a chance to write until now, but I wanted to tell you happy birthday. I find myself humming our song, dreaming of holding you in my arms in the dance hall after hours, fretting about where you'd run off to. Now, I'm the one who's run off, aren't I?_

_I love you, my darling. I think about you constantly, and I dream about us. Please, write back, tell me about Mrs. H and London and Greg and your brother and rabbits and experiments, please. I miss you horribly, don't worry about boring me. It's actually quite dull here- seems Hitler's got cold feet in Scandinavia, literally! Seems we're just waiting for the frost to melt- chance'd be a fine thing, I'm frozen solid. I never quite recovered my ability to withstand the cold from my years in the tropics._

_We've been in good spirits since new years- the best thing about our Finnish counterparts is a little thing called schnapps, although we've been eating tinned fish as well, which is not my favourite, but beggars can't be choosers. I hear, from the other boys letters, that rationing has begun back home- and Mrs. H better have made you a birthday cake, tell her that her employment depends on it. Make it chocolate, too._

_A very happy birthday, my omega.  
_

_Your Husband  
_ _J.H.W_ _  
_

* * *

_14 February 1940_

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_Happy Valentines Day. Perhaps, if I could hold you, touch you, I could explain these things properly, but here, here I can only say that I am sorry. I am so so sorry, I can't tell you why, but I will. I love you, Sherlock, you're mine, and I will always come back to you. That is, if you want me to. I know this isn't the sort of thing I ought to be sending you, I ought to be cheerful, but I haven't heard from you in months, and I need to know that you are alright._

_Please, my love, tell me that we are okay._

_I don't think I can fight without you behind me, and my heart still skips a beat at post call._

_Your Husband,  
_ _J.H.W_

* * *

Sherlock held the letters tight in his fingers, shaking fingers, pulling them to his nose and fighting tears in his eyes at their musky, comforting smell, his heart leaping inside his chest. Mrs. Hudson had sent them all to him, and the thought sent his stomach into knots. The girls were giggling as the post was passed around, lovers sending love notes, families back home. What did Sherlock have?

He had picked up the pen so many times, his mind wandered as the days went by, monitoring the signal board, fixing the lorries when they broke down, his thoughts adrift. He decided he had three options:

1\. Desert and swim the channel. Not a viable option, as (a) he couldn't swim and he doubted even a strong swimmer could manage it (b) he didn't want to get shot and (c) he didn't want to leave. Not now. Not when he was actually doing something important, when his actions made a difference and he was finally _necessary_ \- not a piece of expensive living furniture or a womb with legs. He was Sherlock Holmes, ATS Volunteer O/011895. No, leaving was not a viable option. 

2\. Hide his service from John completely. That would be rather arduous, and excluding and unplanned incidents or information being exchanged, he had three people he needed to be in on the lie: Mrs. Hudson (possible), Lestrade (also possible) and Mycroft (impossible). Again, not a viable option. 

3\. Tell John.

Nope. No, don't even think about that, Sherlock. He shuddered, clenching his eyes shut and staring down into the cup of tea that smelled papery and weak, and bitter without his usual sugar, but he drank it anyways, swallowing it down and trying not to think about it. He wanted to vomit. No, no he couldn't tell John. He had lied, manipulated. There was no way in hell that would go down without something horrible. John would either kill him or leave him, and he honestly didn't know which of those he'd prefer. 

"Sherl, you alright?" Vanecia smiled, tucking into some toast as she rubbed his shoulders. 

"Fine," He gave her a fake smile, eyes glassy and dark.

"You don't seem fine, and if someone's broke your heart, we'll break 'im," She pat his shoulder and sat on the bench next to him, and Janine gave Sherlock a knowing look across the table. 

"No, no I'm okay, really," Sherlock said cheerfully, his heart glazed over and solid, "perfectly alright,"

* * *

19 May 1940

Mycroft Holmes was worried, worried sick. His nail beds, bitten to the edge of bleeding, were testament. As much as he hated to admit it, the battle for Europe had been lost, and they would fight another day, and they would not win alone. But some of his more obstinate colleagues disagreed. He rest his fist on the edge of the table, eyes flickering over the map display, mind a calculating machine, sharp and unattached. They were numbers. Dots on a map to him and that was what made him the best, but he couldn't eyes still drifted to the tiny pin, just by the Belgian border, a pin that contained 300 ATS support staff. Including a certain Mechanic and Telephonist.

"The problem with the evacuation of France is that we don't have the resources to transport so many troops ready, sir, especially without a deep-water port," Mycroft gave the low ranking minister a glare. 

"This country has the most powerful navy this world has ever seen, and you're trying to tell me that we can't evacuate our men from France? What does Lubrun say?"

"Lubrun's a coward, and a puppet government, we are on _our own_ , and that is exactly why we need to retreat. Gather our men and save the fight. Hitler may have won his empire on land, but the channel will always be his greatest obstacle." Mycroft rubbed his temples in aggravation. 

"What does the Prime Minister say?"

"the Prime Minister is an idiot, now do as I say, we need to start evacuating _now."_ Mycroft ordered, but they weren't unified and the room was tense.

 _"_ I say we keep pressing forward, we're strong enough for a counter-attack at Arras," Mycroft growled, his alpha pulsing through his veins before he stood, rolling his umbrella handle in his fist before leering at the Viscount. 

"On your head be it."

* * *

24 May 1940

Sherlock listened with intent, holding his fingers to his headphones, scribbling out the messages tapping through with his pencil, frowning as the words formed and pulling his headset off. His pencil clattered to the floor as he pushed back his chair and strode down the row of radio transmitters, girls in headphones with a variety of colours of pinned curls before finding his commander. He tapped on her shoulder, his eyes glowing with purpose.

"ma'am? I think this is important," He passed her his message, watching as her eyes flickered over it before settling with seriousness as well. 

"You're right, back to your post," She turned on her heel and Sherlock watched her as she approached the captain, frozen in his place as he saw his eyebrows furrow as well. He swallowed and turned to retreat to his workstation, slumping down and holding his headphones in his hands, still watching his superiors discussion in the corner of his eye.

"What's going on there?" Sherlock looked up and found Janine leaning across, nodding towards the commander.

"We've been given orders to evacuate," Sherlock whispered, eyes sparkling ice blue, "Seems we're going to Dunkirk, before Hitler realizes what we've done,"

"You think that'll work?"

Sherlock's lips turned slightly down, looking back to Janine and swallowing thickly, before three wretched words fell from his mouth.

"I don't know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 I forgot to post this last night so you might get a second update later today but idk, I think I may condense the next two chapters into one bc this was dreadfully short okay I'm going for a run you should too it's good for your body and your mental health and you deserve good things luv u byeee


	35. Chapter 35

29 May 1940

Sherlock gasped as his skin was drizzled in the salty mist of the ocean, a hand over his eyes to look over the beach, queues of soilders towards the water, the pier also crammed full of bodies, waiting for a vessel.

It was a waiting game now, and the silence was frightening, teeth on edge, waiting for catastrophe, with the carrier ships looming on the horizon, just out of reach. There was a ship coming into the pier, a smaller hospital vessel, and Sherlock watched silently as a crowd of medics and stretcher carriers made their way through the crowd.

The air was thick with smoke, the village now barricaded, and Sherlock shuffled back towards the houses, wind slapping bits of sand against his delicate skin, and he began to jog towards the street, the stones easier to walk atop, the ground littered with dropped pamphlets, things abandoned by civilians. Sherlock removed his helmet, running fingers through the hair that had just begun to grow back. Captain Moran stood, his arms crossed as he spoke with two RAMC volunteers with red and white arm bands.

"Bloody hell," Moran whispered under his breath, his scent strong of distress and it sent shivers through Sherlock. "We'd just need someone to drive us there, we could get the train back going,"

"Sir?" Sherlock said, and all three heads turned his way. "I can drive," 

" _omega_ , not now," One of the medics leered, flashing yellow teeth and Sherlock growled, turning his focus only to the Captain. 

"Sir, I can drive, I can fix this car, I can carry things, let me help." The Captain stared at him, assessing, and Sherlock steeled his nerve, biting down on his lower lip and staring right back, his eyes glittering with flecks of green, a single curl drooping onto his forehead.

"Alright. Get in," 

"Yes, sir, where to, sir?" 

"Half a mile from the station, there's a train carrying wounded abandoned by it's diver,"

"You mean, past the barricade, sir?" Moran gave him a look that said _what do you think?_ and Sherlock nodded, not minding the worried whispers of the stretcher carriers, following the Captain to the parked vehicle, which was acting partially as cover, and while the large red cross painted on it's canvas should have brought comfort, it did not. The stretcher carriers loaded themselves into the back Sherlock steadied his breath and pulled himself up into the drivers seat, the engine roaring to life as Moran joined him, riffle slung over his shoulder. Sherlock eyed the revolver on his belt, pushing in the clutch and driving through the empty street and past the sandbag walls, his heart racing with each roll of the tyres. 

"Steady, Holmes," Sherlock nodded and drove a bit faster, eyes steady on the road, controlling his racing heart, and soon he could see the train station.

"Follow this, half a mile north and we should find it," 

Sherlock gasped and ducked his head as they received fire, bullets ripping holes in the canvas and carving holes in metal, Moran cursing under his breath, and the ground bumpy, jostling the passengers as they drove the lorry into a small band of wood to their left, the shelter only temporary, and Sherlock's ears twitched to hear voices in the distance, and through the thick branches he could barely see a german patrol- four men. 

"We should go back," Came a concerned voice from the back and Sherlock shook his head, looking towards Moran, his mind flashing with an idea. 

"Pass me your revolver." He whisper shouted as the voices got closer.

"What?"

"Do you trust me?" 

"No!" Moran growled and Sherlock tilted his head in amused agreement, before turning, his lips turned into a small smile. 

"If I can distract them, could you get close enough to get a shot in?" Moran gaped incredulously, shaking his head slightly before glaring.

"Maybe. _Maybe_ ,"

"Well, maybe is better than getting taken prisoner, hold this," Sherlock took off his helmet before quickly stripping of his jacket, now clad only in his button down and tie, removing his tie as well, and looking himself over before ripping his British insignia from the side of his arm. He tousled his hair and leaned in forward, "If I don't come back, leave the car and go on foot, we'll be leaving it behind anyways."

"Holmes, I swear to god-" Sherlock didn't let him finish before rushing out into the woods, and the RAMC infantrymen exchanging glances. 

* * *

The german grinned, his riffle held in his hands, approaching the vehicle that had crashed up ahead. 

"Hilfe! bitte, alpha, bitte!" (help! alpha, please!) There was a shrill cry from his right, just into the clearing, and his nose perked up, the smell of an omega nearby, and he sniffed the air intensely, before giving his comrades a confused glare, only to find them gulping down the air as well. 

"Ich brauche es! Bitte! B-bitte!" (It hurts! p-please!) The german turned, trudging through the thick grass, looking both ways before slinging his riffle over his shoulder. 

"Wer ist da?" (who's there?) He shouted, only to hear keening, a male! A male omega, sounding like he was approaching his heat. A german too. His feet couldn't move fast enough to find a crumpled pale thing in the grass, tugging at his clothes, writhing in the dirt, shock of chocolate curls shuddering as he trembled, moaning and grasping his stomach. The german furrowed his brows, "Du bist weit weg von deinem Zuhause, Omega!" (you're far from your home, omega!)

"b-bitte," Sherlock whispered, his eyes doleful and sweet, his entire body fighting him as he pumped out his scent, hoping the blond soldier bought it. Clearly, he was too good a prize to pass up, and his comrades agreed, closing in as a pack, and Sherlock swallowed nervously. This could really go wrong if he didn't play it right. 

"Mach dir keine Sorgen, kleiner Junge, wir kümmern uns gut um dich, füllen dich auf und schicken dich voller arischer Babys nach Hause," (don't worry, little boy, we'll take good care of you, fill you up nice and good, full of our pure German seed, send you home full of aryan babies) He growled, his breath hot and foul on Sherlock's skin. 

The small boy whimpered, turning his head back and forth and keening as the first one dropped to his knees in front of him, pressing him to the ground by his wrists, fingers grasping around his bony wrists with unnecessary force. His sharp nose burrowed in the crook of his neck, scenting him, and Sherlock prayed to a god he didn't believe in they wouldn't see his bondbite, or smell John on him at all. This alpha smelled horrible, greasy and scary and Sherlock's pheremonal control began to weaken, his body pumping out waves of submission, an omega's fear response.

"Ich möchte zuerst!" (I wanna go first!) One of his comrades growled, shoving the first one off. 

"Nein, er gehört mir (No, he's mine) There was snarling and Sherlock sheilded his face, and as anticipated, four quick shots rung out, and Sherlock gasped as blondie stared down at him, with a bullet between his eyes, head lulling back as he collapsed atop the frightened omega, who shrieked and rolled the limp body off of him. He panted, his eyes wild, staring down at the four bodies spread out at his feet, his knees pulled up to his chest. 

"Sherlock!" Moran whispered, crouching down and running over, riffle slung over his shoulder, "Sherlock Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" Sebastian took one look at his pale, ashen face and realized, yes. Yes he did. 

"You've gotta snap out of it, kid, we've got a window. There's a hundred casualties on that train and they need you," Moran gave him a firm look as he pulled the omega's uniform over his shoulders. "How the hell do you speak german?!" Sherlock shrugged, it hadn't been hard to learn as a child, when he tried to convince his tutor he was a german spy, and he never really forgot. 

"The train," Sherlock said, squaring his shoulders, and Moran smiled, pulling him up and nodding. 

"Let's go."

"Wait," Sherlock leaned forward and took the handgun from the dead german's body, giving him a glare, eyes flickering over his curly blonde locks and pale eyes, mouth hung open in a final gasp of surprise. He should've felt guilt, anything. But he didn't. _Rot in hell, prick._ Moran didn't argue and they continued on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3 please tell me what you think beautiful people


	36. Chapter 36

30 May 1940 8:42

"Christ," John whispered as HMHS Paris approached the shore, looking through binoculars to the pale sand streaked with queues of ants. But they weren't ants, they were soldiers. "How many are there?"

"300,000," Murray said, taking the binoculars from John.

"But I thought the goal was 35,000?"

SIlence.

"Jesus Christ," John swallowed, and soon he saw the real problem- a bomber diving out of the sky with a screeching roar, howling bullets firing, the orderly rows scrambling, and he let out his breath before watching it circle around for another go, black crosses glinting in the sun. The queues formed once again, but a good number didn't get back up from the ground. 

"They're sitting ducks!" John growled, "Where the hell is the bloody Air Force?"

Where, indeed.

* * *

2 June 1940 23:45

Sherlock shivered, the night air chilled as he sat in the sand, holding his knees to his chest, shuddering as the roar of engines filled the sky, nobody dared sleep, and Sherlock watched the stars with intent, searching for those bloody planes, for a reason to fall into the sand and cover his helmet. 4 bloody days on this beach would do that to someone. 

"Come on ladies, it's time to go," Moran smiled at Sherlock and Janine, and the omega stood, Sherlock pulling up his knee socks as their unit followed him, a silent march along the beach to the pier, which was almost enitrely destroyed, but still manageable. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deep the salty air, the wood creaking beneath their feet as they stepped over gaping holes in the wood, blood stains on the white paint just barely visable in the twilight. Sherlock flinched, the hum and unmusical remainder of metal and pipes filling his ears, pressing crescent shaped marks into his fists. Janine looked up and smiled.

"One of ours, love," Sherlock nodded, his body still wracked with shivers. Christ, snap out of it! The wood of the gangplank groaning as each woman climbed into the small ship, and Sherlock looked up to watch the sailors that looked down at them in some sort of amusement. Like they were mascots. 

Once aboard, they were shuffled into a crowd, thick and hot and pulled into a door and down below decks, where the air was warm with breath and tea and the smell of jam and kind voices and Sherlock could almost smile.The steps were clanging metal, and Sherlock let his feet fall, someone slung a white lifejacket over his shoulders, and he followed Janine, but suddenly Sherlock was dizzy, his head spinning, his bond bite sharply aching, like a pulsating icy hot that stung through his neck. He was reeling, his vision blurry and he stumbled, grasping the rail and barely making it to the last step.

Something was wrong, he could feel it. He felt as if his skin were being shred from his body in strips, and he let out a shaky breath through his nose, his curls drenched in seawater and sweat. This wasn't heat, it wasn't- this was an attack, his body suddenly overwhelmed with waves of emotion and panic- a familiar smell barely filtering into his nostrils. But it couldn't be, it couldn't.

"Sherl? Sherl, are you alright?" He could just barely see Janine through the fog, tapping his cheek and handing him toast haphazardly spread with jam. He took it but his hands were shaking, and Janine took it back before he could drop it. He tried to speak, mouth agape, but the words were caught in his throat and his eyes filled with terror.

"Oh my, let's sit him down," Another woman's voice. Sherlock blinked a few times to clear the haze, a nurse. She guided him to the steps by the portside door and sat him down on them, a cup of tea put between his trembling fingers, watching as the liquid sloshed, the ship creaking this way and that, his breaths shallow and weak.

"Is he, you know-" The nurse turned to Janine as someone touched his forehead, he could feel the looks of the men standing around him in the crowd, but he was too lost to care.

"He's on blockers, he shouldn't be, and he doesn't smell like it," Janine supplied and grasped his hand tight.

"Right, I'll tell the doctor to have a come around, you just keep him calm for now," The nurse gave Sherlock a pat and toodled off, and Sherlock groaned, his face clammy and cold. 

"Sherl, what's wrong?" Janine knelt in front of him, giving the soldiers nearby them an apologetic toothy smile. 

_"Jawn,"_ He whispered, "I- _I smell Jawn_ ,"

"John's not here," Janine pet his hair, "But we're going home, love, just take a deep breath and we'll be home soon," Sherlock nodded mutely, but he really could. It was as if John was right there, he clenched his hands to keep himself form grasping for his Alpha. 

* * *

"Dr. Watson, can you come take a look here, there's an omega in shock, I'm afraid he might pass out,"

"He?" John scoffed, looking up from his patient. This was their fourth round of evacuees. He took in a deep breath and his heart sank in an instant, like a stone thrown into a lake. Through a tangle of limbs and uniforms he smelled it. Sweet blackberries and honey that filled his lungs as he took in a shaky breath. " _Sherlock_." He whispered, his feet moving beneath him of their own volition, his nostrils twitching and his eyes watering. In a haze of confusion he shoved past bodies, until his eyes suddenly saw him.

Was this some sort of sick hallucination? 

Sherlock, beautiful Sherlock, in uniform, curled in on himself, his soft chocolate hair cut short around his ears, pale skin flushed with pink as he leant his forehead against the railing of the steps. His once delicate fingers were stained with petrol and gunpowder, his face smudged with a bit of it too. 

Suddenly, he looked up, and John gasped, half in shock, half in relief to see him, pale diaphanous eyes glowing with realization, and the omega shuddered, pulling himself up, much to the worry of his companion, and ATS woman who was holding him by his biceps, trying to convince him to sit before she looked over, somehow recognizing John as well. 

"Jawn?" Came the whisper, but somehow it felt like a shout in John's ears and he rushed the final metre to his lover, pulling him into his arms, his chest heaving with joy to feel him beneath his hands, delicate and soft and trembling. John tucked his nose in his neck- Sherlock was afraid, very afraid, before pulling back and looking at him closer, panting with a golden smile before his heart stopped with guilt. 

_Her_ eyes seemed to stare back at him, his hands felt so disgusting and dirty and unworthy to touch, he let go immediately, and Sherlock backed up, eyes wide, tripping on the metal steps, and John belatedly realized _why_ Sherlock was here, in his lifejacket and helmet and uniform, and John's brows knit and his mouth hung open slightly. How could he- 

" _Jawn,"_

Then there was a shout above decks, that horrible roar of a plane overhead, and John looked up briefly before there was a flash of light. The world lurched forward, the explosion flooding the cabin with darkness water in an instant, and John could barely cry, "SHERLOCK!" before everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry (not sorry) for the cliff hanger
> 
> ✰✰ tell me what you think! ✰✰


	37. Chapter 37

Sherlock Holmes was going to die. 

He fought and struggled, his hair around his head in a halo under the dark water, his life jacket knocking him about and he flailed his limbs to find something, anything to grab onto. His heart was racing his his mind was fuzzy as held his breath, spots of green and purple in his eyes. There was a tug on his ankles, holding him down, and he kicked with all his might, barely looking through the darkness to see Janine, and in a moment of panic, he kicked her away with a brutal heel to her nose. She didn't come back up after that.

He gasped, his vision filled with bubbles, the last breath he had breathed right before his eyes. His legs began to atrophy, his heart slowing, mind sloppy and hazy.

He didn't fight it. At least now he would die somebody, his own man, this was his choice. Greg might call him a hero. Mycroft would be pleased to be rid of him. John could remarry and find someone good and sweet and domesticated. Mrs. Hudson could make her biscuits and tell the story of that strange boy that used to live in 221b. He smiled and let himself sink, his eyes shut, resigned to lie forever under the ocean. That wasn't so bad, he thought. 

Suddenly, there were hands under his armpits, and he was going up. _Fuck, I hope God isn't real._ His head lolled forward as he went completely under, just a limp body in the water, salt on his lips. Then his arm crashed into something, metal, and the other one too, and he was being pulled out of the hull of the ship. There was air on his skin, it was cold and wet and salty and his lungs were full, crammed full, no room for oxygen.

"Sherlock, I swear to God, you better _fucking_ be alive, answer me, damnit!" He shook his head, lulling forward and finding himself on a very wet shoulder. "Cough it out, Sherlock," He gasped as there was a slap to his back and he did cough, horribly, and snot and blood dribbled out of his nose and his eyes burned from the salt. 

" _J-jawn,_ " He whispered in between retches.

"Oh thank God, thank God. What the hell are you doing here, Sherlock?" John whispered, still holding them both tight, hands clenched around Sherlock's air jacket. He didn't expect an answer, and he didn't get one. He smiled and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, soaking wet and- disgusting? he licked his lips at a bitter, acrid, taste and gasped, the ships spotlight still flickering, illuminating them both- his ivory lover's skin blackened by a slick film of oil, which dripped from his curls, mixing with blood on his lips.

"Christ!" John shouted, looking both ways before pumping his legs desperately, still grasping a sputtering and coughing Sherlock. "Sherlock we've got to get out of here before-" There was the unmistakable roar of bullets in the air and John cried out in agony, his entire body throbbing with pain, radiating from his shoulder like electric current. Then he smelt it- fire, and he shoved Sherlock below the water before the oil was set alight above them. 

Sherlock gasped, struggling, writhing for air, his curls sloshing this way and that but John held him down by his wrists with alpha strength. Sherlock somehow pulled his left wrist free, and John realized his entire left arm was useless, and it hit him like a tonne of bricks. He'd been shot. The fire raged above them, and it was an inhuman choice- to drown or to burn.

Once free of John's vice like grip, the omega's life preserver tugged him upwards, and he punched the surface of the water, slapping at the film of ink and creating a pocket, lifting his head above only to scream, his skin shrieking at the heat, blaring, blistering heat, all around him, the air so thick with smoke he could barely get oxygen, and he dove back under, his body filled with otherworldly strength, both him and John pumping their legs to find a place to get above. 

Soon they were safe, just outside the burning water, and exhausted. The air was echoing with the keens and screams and thick was the smell of burning flesh. Sherlock panted, holding tight to John, his life preserver barely holding the both of them, and he pumped his legs to keep his husband above the surface. 

"Jawn, hold on tighter, you're going to sink if you let go!" Sherlock admonished, grasping tight to the heavy, water logged fabric of John's uniform. 

"Sherlock you've got to let go of me," The doctor whispered, reaching with his good hand to wipe the petrol from Sherlock's beautiful cheekbones, and to let his fingers touch his petal skin once more. Sherlock's eyes were a brilliant pale ice as he panted, leg muscles quivering at the exertion.

"No! No I'm not letting go, just hold on to me and everything will be fine, we'll get through this, just stay- stay with me," Sherlock choked, his eyes laden with tears, shaking his head desperately, pumping his legs weakly. 

"You can't hold both of us, and I can't swim, I've been shot, you've got to let me go, find a boat and go home, Sherlock, you'll be alright without me," John whispered and Sherlock panicked, his eyes darting about, trying to solve this. If he could only think, if he could just _think_.

"No! No I can't lose you, I can't, so just hold on and-"

"Because of the bite?" John said with a sad smile, fingers grazing his lover's neck, and Sherlock cried out, frantically searching the horizon for something- anything.

"You saved my life you idiot! Now let me save yours!" 

"Sassy now, I like it," John mumbled with a delirious smile, and Sherlock realized he was losing blood, gasping and pressing fingers into his shoulder, his husband hissing at the pressure. 

"Why did you save me, John, why did you come back for me?!" Sherlock cried, eyes blurry with tears, "Why did you fucking get shot?!"

"I love you, I can't help it, you brilliant madman, that's why you've got to let go of me, wait for a patrol boat and be safe, love, let go and save yourself, your life is still ahead of you,"

"Shut up. I love you, but shut up," Sherlock growled, attempting to pull them towards the shore, he could barely see anything in the dark, "why are you smiling?!"

"You said you loved me," John chuckled, clearly in a delirious state of shock. Sherlock let out his breath in a laugh, blinking and smiling like an idiot, pressing a warm wet kiss to John's cheek, petrol be damned. Suddenly they were enveloped in the light of a torch, the crimson stained water glittering around them as John's head lolled back. 

"Hey! You there!" Sherlock gasped, turning in the light, his oil soaked curls shimmering black to see a motorboat approaching, and he cried out. 

"Help! Please! He's been shot, please," 

"We're coming, lad," Came the sweet older voice, "Willie, throw him the rope!" Sherlock gasped as a rope landed beside him, pulling into his hands before tying it around John's middle with a precise and practised knot. The unconscious alpha groaned and Sherlock beamed, holding on to the rope as they were pulled to safety. 

Sherlock clambered up into the civilian craft, being pulled up by two sets of hands. He immediately turned, making sure they pulled John gently, and the alpha flopped against the decks, the crowd of evacuees moving to make room.

"We can take him below decks," A younger boy in civilian kit knelt next to him and Sherlock shook his head vigorously. The boy turned to his grandfather and furrowed his brows as Sherlock unbuttoned John's shirt, finding his pulsing wound and putting pressure, tying a tourniquet with a torn piece of shirt, his fingers stained with ruby blood. 

"You- you have to get the bullet out, Sherl," John mumbled, eyes blinking as he came into consciousness again and Sherlock swallowed. 

"Oh my god, Captain Watson!" Came the shout and footsteps across the decks of the small pleasure vessel. A dark haired Corporal immediately sat beside Sherlock, taking his superior's pulse. "He's right, the bullet's too close to the heart to be allowed to hitch a ride, and we'll have to remove it before we can stitch 'im up- has anybody got a med kit?" There was shuffling and murmurs and soon there was a med kit beside them.

"You got small fingers, omega, just, reach in, find it and pull it out." Sherlock bit his bottom lip and pressed a kiss to John's lips before sitting back, rolling up his sleeves and taking a wobbly breath.

The flesh was warm beneath his fingers as he pushed in past John's thick skin, his Alpha keening at the pain, and Sherlock shushed him gently, his fingers digging through warm, plushing crimson flesh, his stomach churning at the coppery smell. 

"Got it," He gasped, fingers grazing a bullet, metal still hot against his fingertips. He gently pulled it between his fingers, John making inhuman noises in pain, and wiggled it free, pulling it out and gasping at it in his palm. 

"Continue pressure and I'll stitch him closed, you did good," There was a pat on his back from one of the onlookers and Sherlock pocketed the bullet before pressing down again, his stained hands leaving bloody marks all over the torn shirt of the Captain. 

"He's going to be just fine, private, you bloody saved his life," Sherlock's lips turned into a smile, wiping his inky cheeks with his elbow and looking down at his husband, covered in petrol and blood and soaked to the bone, but alive. 

The smile didn't last long, and a tremor began to shake through Sherlock, he could feel her fingers around his ankles, and he was numb. He killed her, he could see her eyes, frantic and wide and he had kicked her down. He'd saved his own life and taken hers. It was a calculus he could not understand. 

"Love, y'alright?" The words fuzzily echoed in his ringing ears and Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but he was frozen, his whole body was frozen, his mind sealed shut. "You can let go love, why don't we get you some tea?"

Sherlock didn't move, he only watched John's chest, in and out, in and out, his face calm and weathered and beautiful. He should've felt pride to have saved John. But he couldn't really feel anything at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✰✰ tell me what u think 🥺


	38. Chapter 38

The air was cool and damp, drifting in through the windows as Greg lie sleeping, his back lit with a large square of silver moonlight. His husband's fingers gently stroked across his flank, tracing the patterns within the consolations of freckles.

"I want to go see Emelia, maybe the weekend. Or tomorrow," Mycroft whispered, and the Detective groggily flipped onto his back, eyes soft and wide and chocolate brown, the twilight resting on his tanned skin like silver dust. 

"Alright," he said sweetly, lips turned into a smile, and Mycroft nodded curtly, sitting up against the headboard and pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes. 

"My brother almost died yesterday," His voice was small, his throat tight with something so close to tear-fullness he refused to acknowledge it entirely. Greg sat up as well, the bed covers bunching around his waist.

"What?" He whispered, and Mycroft nodded, eyes brimming with liquid. Not tears. Couldn't be. 

"He-" The British Government swallowed, his voice completely broken, his cheeks wet. He pressed his fingers to the strange sensation of chilled tracks of skin, blinking heavily. What a strange sight to see, he thought. A powerful alpha brought to weeping, brought to this baseness by that cancer that was _sentiment_.

" _Love,_ " Greg whispered, swinging one leg over Mycroft's straddling him and leaning onto his shoulder, arms wrapped around him tight, thumbs brushing above the collar of his striped-and-ironed pyjamas. The older man wept freely into Greg's bare chest.

"Myc, shhh," Greg lulled, his rough cheek scratchy against Mycroft's, fingers carding through the curly, product-less ginger curls atop his ears.

"God, I wish I could hate him as much as he hates me," Mycroft scoffed, stiffening beneath Greg's fingertips. The silvery younger man knit his brows and leaned back to look directly into Mycroft's eyes.

"He doesn't hate you,"

"He does. And that's alright. As long as he's okay, but he wasn't, he wasn't okay."

"Shh, shh, he's alright, isn't he? Is he safe?"

"Yes, I- but he'll have to- keep doing this- I can't, I know he isn't mine, but-"

"I know," Greg whispered, rubbing soft hands down his lover's biceps, pressing his lips to his husband's forehead, breathing in just a drop of his gorgeous scent. Like icy steel and peppermint. "We make sacrifices, we fight, we win."

"We aren't winning," 

"But we're still fighting," Greg said sternly, playfully pushing Mycroft down onto the matress, "We'll always fight."

"Too right, Gregory," Mycroft whispered, "too right."

* * *

John groaned, blinking once, twice, meeting a large white light, and a silver fixture. He attempted to sit up, pushing himself up from a creaky bed, his shoulder screaming in pain and he rubbed his right hand across it, looking down to find himself with a nasty scar that bloomed like a mangled and powderburned meteorite crater.

"Hey, hey, lie back, you'll pull on your stitches," John flicked his eyes over to see a halo of curls looking down at him, pale angelic skin glowing and he blinked. Was this real? 

"Sherl, what are you doing here?" he mumbled, squinting to see him clearly, in the busy military hospital, crawling with nurses and injured. "Where am I?"

"Kent." Sherlock said sweetly, "drink this," He put a glass of water to John's lips and the doctor did as he was told, sipping until the glass was taken, his mouth still dribbling. His left arm rose, but spasmed and burned his shoulder, so he begrudgingly wiped it away with his right hand. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, and John budged up, pressing is back against the metal bed frame. 

His husband was busily writing something, a letter, using a book as a table on his leg, scribbling with a fountain pen. John bit his lip at his tan shorts and blazer, his neat collar and tie, small cap resting on John's bedside table. His hair, once like waves of inky water, now cropped and neat beside his ears, still a complete floof. Different. Not bad, just, different.

"You're in the army now, love," John said fondly, reaching and grazing the little ringlets, the omega biting his lip, eyes wide and full of guilt.

"I am." He said.

"I don't think I approved of that." John gave him raised eyebrows, and the omega bit his cheek.

"I didn't ask,"

There was a tense silence between them, and John weakly moved his hand to hold Sherlock's, his callused fingers interlacing with Sherlock's pale soft hand, thumb rubbing a circle there, as if to continuously remind himself that indeed, this was his lover, his beautiful boy, right here. His heart suddenly clenched in his chest and he let go slightly, looking to Sherlock with deep, cavernous indigo eyes, and for once he knew exactly what he wanted to say.

"Sherlock, I- I want to say that I am sorry, for not, appreciating you, cherishing you the way that I should have. I want to give us another chance. I- I've failed you,"

"John you certainly have not failed me, if anybody failed-" Sherlock scoffed, looking down at his uniform with a mild self-hatred.

"I cheated on you, Sherlock," John whispered, his heart racing and it was silent again, and he watched intently the expression on his lover's face, it was almost childish, soft and innocent and anguished it was gut-wrenching. 

"oh," Sherlock finally said, quite softly, hands still wrapped around John's, looking up with glowing, almost understanding eyes, "I never expected to be the only one," John's heart sunk in his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

"No. God, _n_ _o_ , Sherlock you were- _are_ the only one, I was wrong and- I let myself forget how special you are, and how lucky I am to have you,"

"But, I disobeyed you, I was disrespectful and disobedient and selfish and-"

" _Sherlock_ ," John whispered, his eyes glowing and his lips turned into a smile, "I am so proud of you, God, I was so worried, Sherlock, I thought you'd gone off me," John whispered, pulling his omega's fingers to his lips, eyes crinkling in a sad smile.

"Gone off you?" Sherlock whispered, "You _idiot_ ," He grasped his fingers on John's ears and pressed himself forward, devouring his alpha's lips with lithe elegance, sucking on the chapped and broken skin like it was his lifeline. John hummed beneath him, fingers carding through Sherlock's curls, grasping as if he might lose him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a tiny lil update while I get my research together for the next chapter!! Historical AU's are the best and simultaneously the worst. 
> 
> you all have been so kind to me and this story, ilysm


	39. Chapter 39

10 June 1940 

Sherlock's fingers twitched, his throat filled with bile as he approached the gates, his heart skipping a few beats inside his chest. He could do this. He was ready. The seventeen year old swallowed thickly before pushing them open, stepping across the path to the garage. He bit his tongue at the memories that seemed to haunt each step he took. Her eyes, her hands, grasping him, pulling him. He shook his head to shake it away fruitlessly, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. 

The reminder of cool metal against his skin was like a balm, and he took any opportunity to forget his shame. He pulled his hands away and examined it, that little silver snake encircling his finger. How such things ever came to be, he didn't understand, how one could so desperately dread something, and yet find themselves content in the same proposition. 

Sherlock was _John's._

Not much could be done about it. Like two stars circling one another, faster and faster, always together. At the end, when the supernova had shrunk itself into oblivion, into the blackness, it would always be just the two of them.

* * *

_"You don't have to stay with me, Sherlock, why don't you go see Mrs. H, or your brother? Why waste your time with a cripple like me?"_

_"You're not a cripple, John, you're going to be fine. It's not fatal and the doctors said you'll have full use of your arm in no time, you'll see John," Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss to his stubborn alpha's cheek, weathered and scruffy beneath his lips._

_"You'll have to go eventually though,"_

_"We still have a week,"_

_"Silly, isn't it? you having to go,"_

_"I don't think it's silly at all John," Sherlock whispered, fingers gracing through John's sandy hair, now just sprinkled with grey. "In fact, I thought to resign, or ask for a post closer to you. Commander Mortimer will understand,"_

_"No, love, you need to go, let your ancient husband be and fight for something,"_

_"You're not ancient, Jawn," The blonde didn't say anything, his eyes wandering to the windows, panes pittering with summer rain. Sherlock bit his lip and reached forward, clasping their hands together, searching for John's eyes. "I forgive you, John, you know I do,"_

_John scoffed in a sad sort of fashion, scratching at the back of his neck and looking down with a glum smile._

_"Budge up," Sherlock proded at his side and John complied, the omega crawling onto the single bed, curling onto John's right side, interlacing their legs and brushing his curls inside of his neck. His palms pressed into the older man's chest with such gentle forcefullness John's breath caught a bit, sadly wrapping his arms around Sherlock's delicate form, pressing a kiss into his jungle of curls, soaking up his scent._

_"You're miraculous, Sherlock," The doctor whispered against the warm body sprawled atop him. "What have I ever done to deserve you,"_

* * *

Sherlock let the familiar faces of his unit haze by him, nodding with a weak smile as the girls embraced him one by one. Their sweet friendly scents and kind eyes did nothing to ease him, this cruel twisting thing inside of him. Debased, inhuman, a monster. 

A freak.

"...Sherl, y'alright?" Vanecia said, grasping his shoulder and searching his eyes. 

"Fine," He gave her a half-hearted grin and nodded, to which she only tutted, pulling him away from the group gathered. 

"You're shaking, Sherl, what's going on?" She soothed, rubbing up and down his arms, "I know it's hard to lose a friend, but she's in a better place, and it was probably painless."

"Heaven is a fantasy. I wasn't her friend. And it was not, I assure you, painless." He scowled.

"Of course you were her friend, Sherl, what are you talking about?"

"Shut up! All of you, shut up! You don't know anything about it, alright?" Sherlock growled, her hand flinching back as if he were made of acid. He swallowed, feeling a second wave of guilt and emotion coming on the horizon, so he bit his lip. Hard. Hard enough to bleed. He sucked his lip between his teeth and sucked at the coppery liquid, lapping at it, pressing at it. He wanted more. He wanted to vacate every vein and capillary in his body. 

"A-tention," Sherlock sucked in a breath through his nose and turned, finding his place in the row and looking ahead, his eyes glassy. The commander gave them all a rough nod before placing her hands behind her back. "I know you probably didn't expect to lose sisters in combat, and I doubt anyone can be prepared for it, but you have to move on."

Apparently, that was enough of a consolation speech. He barely listened to her instructions, his mind floating away from him, bobbing up agianst the water he so stubbornly excaped from. They shouldn't have gone below, if Sherlock wasn't so stupid he would've known. He should've _known_. Maybe if they'd been above decks, they could've swam to safety. If she hadn't needed to take care of him and his pathetic omega. 

"...dismissed. Holmes, stay back please," The girls shuffled away, the gravel crunching beneath their feet and Sherlock swallowed, still standing there, stupidly. Like a doll, his clothes fluttering against him in the wind, his hands numb and limp at his sides. 

"Something's wrong with you, Holmes, tell me." The Commander said, her voice still solid and unyielding, and her shoulders broad. Sherlock swallowed and looked up, her eyes were soft and her jaw was firm. 

"I-" Sherlock breathed, suddenly devoid of oxygen. He couldn't breathe. Fuck. He moved to speak, but his tongue wouldn't budge, his mouth numb and his lungs empty, his body trembling. The commander gasped, holding his shoulders as he went down, his knees slicing into the gravel and his whole body falling forward as he desperately tried to breathe. 

"Oh my god, dear, you're alright, you're alright," She said kindly, brushing his curls and holding upright as he swayed on his knees, his face ashen pale. 

"I killed her," He whispered, just barely keeping himself from growling, "She- tried to get out but I kicked her and I- she's dead," He bit his lip after the shameful words were spoken, wishing with all his might he could beat himself bloody, he was so angry. Janine was his friend. One of his only friends. And now she was gone and it didn't make sense. He looked to the commander with worry. Would he be chastised, discharged, arrested? Isn't that what you did to murderers?

"Holmes, fear makes us do strange things, things we don't want to do, things we would never do otherwise." She said firmly, squeezing his shoulders, "You were afraid. Janine could've done the same thing,"

"She wouldn't, in fact I wish she had, it _should've_ been me," Sherlock breathed, "I should throw myself in the ocean, because I deserved it, not her."

She slapped him. Sherlock blinked and stretched his aching jaw before looking up to the older woman incredulously. 

"You stop that talk this instant. Nothing you do can bring her back, so you need to buck up and deal with it. You're no use to your country like this. Do you understand?"

Sherlock didn't feel like he was a use to anyone. But he nodded. 

"Yes, ma'am,"

"Good. Now, I need to speak with you about something else, so why don't we clean up those knees and have a cuppa,"

Sherlock nodded and shakily took her hand and stood, eyes averted as she led him into the switchboard room, abuzz with activity, and through to her small office. She pointed to a chair and he sat, grasping the arms of it tight as she left again, returning with two cups of over brewed, papery tea. Sherlock took his with a mumbled _thanks_ and drank it heartily. Something cold inside of him fogging up with the warmth of it down his throat. There was a knock on the door and she opened it, revealing Captain Moran, with a smile who gave her a nod. 

"I'll leave you, then," She said, giving Sherlock's shoulder a pat and leaving, the door clicking shut behind her as the large blond circled the desk and slumped into the chair, looking at the tiny omega across from him. 

"I won't mince words, Holmes. You, are the smartest person I have ever met." Sherlock gaped, looking above his cup with confusion.

"I- uh, thank you," Sherlock bit his scabbing lip.

"Now, somewhere, up in the ranks, somebody has specifically mentioned you. Not only as a promotion to officer for your bravery, but as a recruit for something rather hush hush I'm sure you'll want."

"I wasn't br-"

"You're being reassigned." The Captain said finally, resting his interlaced hands on the desk and leaning forwards.

"I-uh, where sir?" Sherlock said shakily, taking a second sip of his tea.

"Bletchley Park, a radio factory," 

Sherlock paused. 

"May I ask, why sir?"

"I'm afraid you cannot, but this was included for you," The Captain grinned as he pulled out a sealed envelope and Sherlock took it in shaking fingers. _Sherlock Holmes._ The omega gasped when he saw the address.

"What would Downing Street want with-" Sherlock's mouth hung open in realization, his eyes wide, chest tight with exasperation. 

That bastard.

_Mycroft._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me what you think <3
> 
> Also, ~foreshadowing~ 
> 
> ~but not really~


	40. Chapter 40

"No, Mycroft. No way, in hell." Sherlock seethed, the telephone handle grasped so tightly in his fist, he was sure any more pressure and the vessel might snap in two, it's wiry and mechanical innards spilt across the floor.

"Sherlock, be reasonable." Mycroft said smoothly, rubbing his temples in aggravation.

"I am not your plaything Mycroft, to be tossed about as you see fit."

"Sherlock, this is not my doing. I mentioned your station to the PM and he saw fit to invite you. Bletchley is his project, not mine." Sherlock scoffed, breathing in and out with frustration. 

"Yes, of course, my mistake, I didn't realize the Prime Minister was personally responsible for the staffing at a radio factory. I'm afraid I must decline his kind offer but give him my best," Sherlock deadpanned, his arm reaching to put the phone back in it's craddle with a clatter when he said it. 

"Enigma!" Mycroft hissed, nibbling at his lip once it had been said. Sherlock furrowed his brows and drew the phone to his ear once more, his interest very much rekindled.

"I'm sorry?"

"If you see fit to waste yourself in the Territorial Service fixing cars and plugging in wires, be my guest, but if you wish to have a crack at enigma, you are to report to Bletchley on Monday." 

"But I'm-" the word evaded his lips, and he itched at his neck.

"Yes, I'm well aware of that, don't be stupid. Precautions will need to be made. My secretary will brief you tomorrow,"

"What did you tell him?" Sherlock whispered.

"Who?"

"What did you tell Churchill?" He repeated, his voice rough and yet so very vulnerable, earning him an odd look from the woman on hall duty. Mycroft sighed, loudly, and Sherlock suckled on his lip, shuffling on his feet, the dust crunching beneath his shoes.

"It's not so hard these days to disguise your condition," Mycroft said calmly, "and I am far too busy to bother with the puzzle myself, and in crisis your name, brother dear, has arisen."

The unsaid fact that Mycroft considered Sherlock's mind the only one second to his own was practically dripping through his words and Sherlock almost felt- something. But this was Mycroft, not John or Janine or Mrs. Hudson. He did not deserve anything so arduous on Sherlock's account as feelings. 

"I must warn you, the man on the spearhead of the project is, rather a queer sort, and won't work with you only on recommendation, with your merit still to prove. 

"It won't be an issue," Sherlock said glumly, once proud of Mycroft's words, now just slightly insulted. "Do give my love to Lestrade,"

The phone clicked and Mycroft sighed, groaning and dropping his phone into it's craddle. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. Forever and always a thorn in his side. 

* * *

John groaned as he stood up, leaning heavily on the walking stick in his right hand his leg aching, rolling his good shoulder and hissing at the pain in his left. A week left of convalesce, but he doubted he would ever fully recover from it. He looked to his bedside table, pulling out a piece of paper and the tub of ink, using the tabletop to write. He unscrew his pen, dipping it into the black and sucking up the thick splotchy liquid, his hand trembling. Oil, black oil, dripping from Sherlock's eyelashes, like soot on his pale skin and acid on his lips.

He trembled and shoved the pen down, putting the lid back of the jar and holding his head in his hands, breath tight in his chest.

_"Sir?" He knocked on the door, the enormous oak door and pushed it slightly ajar, the dust of old books and tobbaco smoke meeting his nose, but also that horrid waft of his father's alpha._

_"Come in," He stood in the doorway, his father leaning over his desk, cleaning his pipe with a match, puffs of smoke filling the small room like a huffing train. "What is it, boy?"_

_John grimaced, tightening his fist and running his fingers through his sandy golden hair, his skin bright and youthful and his eyes a fiery cerulean._

_"I don't want to fly, sir,"_

_Hamish Watson scowled, setting aside his matchbox and holding his pipe in his callused left hand, his yellowing fingernails scratching at the wood._

_"I, I'm grateful for the opportunity, sir, but I'm going to be a doctor. Not a pilot."_

_The Major was seething, shutting his eyes in frustration before sitting back in his enormous chair and clicking his teeth around his pipe._

_"Grateful? Grateful of a free education, grateful of free aeronautical instruction until it doesn't suit your interest? That sounds rather ungrateful to me. But it's out of the question. You're not some_ _stretcher carrier, you're an alpha, and a Watson. No heir of mine will be so wet as to be a doctor"_

_"But Harry's the oldest," John glared. Not this again._

_"Your sister is a hermaphrodite, and will be treated for it, you on the other hand, are an alpha and my son."_ _He said with finality that sent waves of indignance through his son._

_"Son?!" John cried, incredulous, "I am not your son. I am_ nothing _like you," The teenager growled, fists clenched. The Major scoffed at this display of newly presented disobedience._

_"Need I remind you of your place, boy?" The Major's eyebrows lifted. "Never too old for it, I say," John's heart was racing, pounding so hard in his ribcage it might actually burst out._

_"No, sir,"_

_"Good. Now go on," He waved his hand and pointed to the door, returning to his nauseating pipe. John licked his lips, his alpha roaring inside of him to fight, the little boy inside begging to go, hide, run because Daddy was angry._

_The door slammed shut as he left. For good._ _That was the last time he ever saw the Major._

* * *

Sherlock was still as he sat on his creaking bed, eyes locked on the empty dusty space between the bunks. His things were packed by his feet but he didn't want to go yet. Just a few minutes more. If he just kept looking she was sure to come in the door and demand he get dressed to pick up dates or read her love letters out loud for him to deduce. 

He gasped when there was a knock on the door and stood frightfully as it swung open. 

"Sherlock!" Vanecia smiled, "thank goodness I caught you, one of the girls found this when we were away," In her hands rested his camera, and his chest grew tight. 

"Oh, yes, thank you," He took it into his fingers, the metal cool and the black leather soft and dusty. "I thought I'd lost it," She nodded, the air suddenly awkward and Sherlock set the camera in his lap delicately, tossing his curls to one side and itching at his neck from his fresh haircut.

"I'm sorry," He said softly, eyes wide and pale blue.

"You don't have to be sorry," She smiled kindly and pat his shoulder.

"Yes, well, Janine would probably pester me until I said it,"

"That she would," Vanecia grinned, and Sherlock licked across his scabbed and painful bottom lip.

"You know, I've seen omegas die before, and it's always tragedy. It was always because of what they were. But Janine didn't die that way. Janine died because she was brave, even when she didn't have to be,"

"I know what you mean," The beta said lightly, rubbing her palm across his shoulders. "You can always write to us, you know? We'll be here for you," She smiled, apple cheeks and golden hair like something from a fairy tale. Sherlock's lips turned upwards slightly, his pallor beginning to dissipate. 

"I think I'd like that," Sherlock said hopefully, "I think I'd like that very much,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writers block is real, boyos, and I'm trying my darn best.
> 
> These chapters are getting shorter and shorter, and I promise, once I hunt down and capture my muse they'll be long again.
> 
> I love you all so very much <3


	41. Chapter 41

14 June 1940

"Sherlock, I don't like this," Mrs. Hudson said sweetly, perched on the arm of the lounge chair. "Such a beautiful boy, you look- strange," Sherlock swallowed, looking nervously to Anthea who seemed impassive. His cheeks flared and he looked over his shoulder to the mirror. A beta looked back at him- with slicked hair and masculine clothes and pale eyes that followed his own. 

"It's important, Mrs. Hudson," He said numbly. 

"Important enough for this? I thought you were lovely just the way you are,"

"Lovely, yes." Sherlock whispered, fascinated by the mirror, the creature on the other side. He couldn't decide if he liked it or not. "Intelligent, no."

"What does it matter if you _look_ intelligent," She tutted, giving Anthea a little glare. Sherlock looked down at his feet, wearing trousers, a button down and one of John's jumpers. 

"Mycroft says I have to,"

"When have you ever given a hoot what that ghastly man says?" Mrs. Hudson gave Anthea a sour glare. 

Sherlock bit his lip. He nestled his nose in the fabric of his clothing, the cologne thick and manly and calming because it smelled like John. Mycroft, for once in his pathetic paperweight existence, was right. Nobody would take an uneducated omega seriously, this was what he always wanted, to be serious, to be someone else. 

The clenching, twisting, scratching pain in his gut was...unexpected and unappreciated. This was good. He was finally good, now, _just look at me, I look normal._

That was all he ever wanted to be.

* * *

Anthea had gone, leaving the pills and sprays behind, along with new clothes. Secret agent rubbish all of it. It all sat in a lump on the kitchen bench beside his microscope, and Sherlock watched it intently from his armchair. He couldn't help but feel just a sliver of offense, that Mycroft was so ashamed, he couldn't even risk his reputation for the national interest. 

Why did it upset him? He'd never in his life wanted anything to do with himself, with the hateful, delicate flower of a thing that he was- who would want him like that? Who would expect him to be anything more than a bumbling little mother and bond mate, making breakfasts and scrubbing floors, looking the way he had before.

The omega kicked his feet out, finally in comfortable clothes after months of regulation fabric that was no better than a flour sack. His feet slapped against the wood floor as he went into the washroom, filling the basin and dunking his hair into the tepid water. His eyes squeezed closed as the product oozed into the water, his hair finally free from it. He shook like a dog, his locks soft and full underwater, he just wanted to wash this horrible day off. His armor slowy began to dissipate and he was exhausted. He fluffed at his hair with a towell and slumped back into the sitting room, feeling so exposed and nervous and delicate he could snap.

He waited gently, for what he had no idea, his hands grasping the leather arms of his chair as he listened to Mrs. H's scuddling about downstairs. 

Then the phone screeched, rattling on the desk and Sherlock gasped with a start. He gracefully took the phone into his hand, holding the craddle with his left.

"Watson residence,"

"I knew you sounded familiar," Came the cheeky grin from the other end and Sherlock blushed, sitting in John's chair, twirling the cord like the teenager he was. 

"John," He said softly, "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"Lucky guess,"

"Really?"

"No, Mycroft phoned me, the interfering bastard," John paused, looking up at the bleak military hospital, grasping his walking cane tight in his hand. 

His shaking hand. 

"Oh, well, it's nice to have something to rely on," Sherlock smiled gently, reaching to curl a lock around his finger but stopping when he touched the wet curls, still just a bit oily. His stomach dropped and he swallowed thickly. "I've been reassigned, again, I'll be just a touch further away, maybe when we have days off-"

"You will not visit me, Sherlock, that's an order," The omega flinched at his husband's tone, biting at his still scabbed lip, hugging his knees to his chest around the phone. His bondbite was flaring up again, the bloody thing, and he itched at it offhandedly. "I won't have you seeing me all broken down,"

"But John I already-"

" _Sherlock_ ," John warned, and Sherlock could see his face almost, haughty and strong and he bit down even harder, nodding softly even if he was alone in the dark sitting room. _An Alpha's pride_ , he thought, _that's all, he's not cross with me, I'm alright._

"Alright," He said softly and he could hear John sigh on the other end. 

"I'll be good as new in a heartbeat love, you'll see,"

"But- what are you going to do then? Won't it be difficult to do surgery, with your arm the way it is?"

" _Sherlock_ ," The Alpha snarled, and Sherlock cursed himself once more. Stupid, stupid little boy, never saying the right things. 

"Sorry, John," 

"s'alright, darling, it's so good to hear your voice," Sherlock blushed, adjusting the phone, "you still have that camera I got you?" The alpha whispered conspiratorially and Sherlock furrowed his brows.

"Of course I do John, still have a few frames on this roll too, then I'll develop some of them, I'm not exactly sure how to go about it but the chemistry can hardly be too difficult,"

"Good, take off your clothes," John whispered darkly. The omega blinked. Rapidly. Did he just say..."Go on, be a good lad and take off your clothes," John said with a bit more cheek and Sherlock's face was flaring crimson, his heart beat inside of them, his tongue heavy in his mouth as he sucked in weak breaths. 

"J-Jawn, I-"

"Go to your room," The Alpha growled, and a thrill raced down Sherlock's spine as he obeyed, tugging on the phone and unraveling the cord. How John could have ever anticipated the need for such a long wire, Sherlock was pleased to remain ignorant of. "God, I bet you're blushing aren't you," John whispered, and Sherlock could almost feel his breath on his skin, his bondbite pulsing with want, even through the haze of induced pheromones of the scent blockers. "Posh little pale arse all pink with embarrassment,"

"Jawn, this is-" The omega's chest heaved as he was aroused, he'd have to double his dosage tomorrow, fuck. 

"Take off your clothes, Sherlock, I won't ask again," The omega obeyed quickly, setting the phone down, the jumper finding it's way over his head, his drying curls floofing out, and he fiddled desperately with the tight buttons of his shirt and pulled them all into a pile by his feet, curling into a little naked ball on the floor and holding the phone close. He tucked his nose into the knitted wool of John's jumper, sucking up every drop of scent he could find, his omega dizzy inside of him.

"It's cold, John," He whispered, "I feel ridiculous,"

"Touch your chest, Sherlock, tell me what you feel,"

"Touch my-" Sherlock blushed even deeper, the tips of his ears looked as if he'd been dipped upside down in a can of red paint. 

"Go on, now, tell me what it feels like, shy little thing," Sherlock almost giggled at John's silly tone, imagining him leaned over a public phone, putting coin after coin in the slot, whispering these filthy things where anyone could hear. 

Such imagery was rather helpful, he realized, finding the tiny little knob between his legs agreeing with him.

He did as he was ordered, fingers trailing down his smooth skin, across his clavicle, his diaphragm, his pectorals.

"Smooth, it's smooth, well, except," He hissed as he touched it, the sensitive, freezing little bud that perked beneath his fingertips as he pinched it with a whine, "s'cold, John,"

"Such a dirty boy, bet you touched yourself like this every night in your bunk, didn't you?" Sherlock whined, crossing his legs and his toes curling, a dribble of slick puckering around his cloaca, "those poor other omegas didn't know what to think of you- moaning and yipping, begging for me,"

"Oh, God, Jawn," Sherlock whispered, his head thrown back and the voice in the phone sounding more and more distant as he curled his own delicate fingers around his cock, "doesn't feel the same, not at all,"

"Quite right, you need me, don't you?"

"Yes, Jawn,"

"Need my hands on you, only mine will do the trick,"

"Yes, _Jawn_ ,"

"Your poor little hole, just dripping now, I wager, you're desperate, practically in heat by now,"

Whatever nose escaped him was in no way articulate of human language.

"Poor little Sherlock, writhing on the floor like he's just presented, leaking slick all over my nice carpet," John tsked and Sherlock shuddered, he was so close, Christ. 

"However will I stop it, this flood of your juices, all over my nice suit, what do you need me to do?" Sherlock's back arched as his speed increased, his fingers twisting around his shaft as he wriggled on his knees, digging into the carpet. 

"Fuck me," Sherlock whispered, "I'd want you t-to fuck m-me," John growled on the other end and Sherlock keened, kicking out at the floor in frustration, he was empty, so empty and John was so very far away, and-

"Come, _now_ ," John snarled, voice so low it was barely audible.

He cried out, sharp and begging and needy as he came, the clear stuff only adding to the puddle on the floor, his hole still dripping and exposed to the cold air. 

"J-Jawn," He keened before he collapsed into panting, crawling to the side of the bed and leaning his head back against the covers. "How did you-"

"Tsk, military secrets, darling," John tutted and Sherlock blushed, wrapping his arms around his bony, pale knees. "Now, be a good lad and fetch that camera,"

Sherlock nodded, dropping the phone and racing, still naked and flush with endorphins to the kitchen, digging through his suitcase and pulling out his prize, jittery and excited as he returned, falling onto the floor and pulling the phone back under his chin. 

"I've got it, Jawn,"

"Good boy," John smirked, "Go to the mirror," Sherlock mindlessly obeyed, so floaty and lost in his bliss he didn't even think twice. "God, I bet you look gorgeous, practically carved out of marble, ravished just by my words, you're _mine_. All mine,""

Sherlock blushed, fluffing his hair a bit and looking himself over. He was no David, not by a mile, but he guessed it wasn't horrible. 

"Take a picture, darling," Sherlock gasped, stark back in reality as he grasped the phone, his heartbeat tightening and his eyelashes fluttering.

"Take a- what?"

"You heard me," John gravelly whispered, and Sherlock shivered, perching himself awkwardly, trying to look into the viewfinder and look pretty. He was hardly anything special (although anyone in the universe would disagree) and he felt, so exposed, so _naked_. The thought of the image existing forever, it was so, intimate. He settled for turning around, sitting on his ankles and looking over his shoulder. His hips were narrow, but he had a lot of bum for not a lot of flesh anywhere else. He'd always been bony and a bit on the scrawny side, tiny, breakable. Like a deer, caught in the cross hairs and his heart raced as he fingered the shutter. 

He thought of the image, stuffed inside a letter, going through the post, a thousand hands carrying it to John with no idea as to it's contents. The loud shouts of post call, the other men leering when they saw who it was from, John shooing them away, cheekily opening it and tucking it into his pocket- making some snide remark about Sherlock's honour to get them all riled up. 

The shutter clicked and Sherlock gasped. His eyes flashed up to his own in the reflection, timid and amorous and his skin glowed diaphanous with the remnants of his enjoyment. 

"I- I took the photograph, John,"

"Good, send it right over, and get to sleep,"

"Alright, Jawn,"

"God, you're a marvel, Sherlock," John said softly, "What ever did I do to deserve you," and Sherlock was almost warm for a moment, before he was once again present enough to feel the chills seeping in through the floor. Radiator must've gone out again. He'd learn later it was power cuts. He pulled down one of Hudder's knit blankets she insisted on drowning him in from the bed and wrapped himself up. He felt a wave of courage and he furrowed his brow in determination.

"I _am_ going to visit you John." He said sternly, chaneling his inner-Mycroft. "And you are going to like it or lump it."

"This is what I get, having a solider for an omega," Sherlock could practically hear his eyes rolling.

"It has it's upsides, as you assure me often," Sherlock said cooly.

There was a pause, as the alpha considered this. Sherlock felt brazen, headstrong and crazy and just a little bit in over his head. The fear of John's anger was so stale a taste in his mouth, he could only taste this sly negotiation- after all, Sherlock was the one in direct communication with his transport, might as well use it now and then. If John wanted it, he'd have to pay the fee every now and again like every other husband in England. Perhaps the world.

"Goodnight Sherlock,"

Sherlock grinned, "G'night Jawn,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this author is delicate and needs criticism to be kind and constructive bc he is a sensitive bean <3 
> 
> proceed with hugs and love bc I love you all


	42. Chapter 42

15 June 1940

Bletchley was pretty. Tall shading trees that swayed in the breeze, sun kissing Sherlock's skin. It was a lot like Sherinford, almost too much for comfort. The manor was large, the grounds were nice, it was strange to see military personnel and equipment everywhere. Sherlock clutched his papers nervously. He'd taken two of his pills today, sprayed himself generously, and he felt horrible. Whatever industrial strength chemicals Mycroft had elected to pump him full of were ghastly, his skin dry and itchy, his eyes hidden by dark circles, and he coughed dryly. He looked sickly and pathetic and he was sure everyone could see right through him. 

The guard at the gate had said he was to go to Hut 8. Where in the hell _that_ would be was apparently not something he elected to share, so Sherlock was horribly lost. Suddenly a group of women went by, in tight skirts and neat hats and he breathed easy. Navy Girls. WRENS. Probably radio transmissions personnel. 

“Hello, I’m afraid I’m terribly lost, could you help me?” He said softly, and a dark haired girl gave him a quirked smile.

”You’re new here,” She said obviously, licking her teeth, her lipstick was blood red and she smelled like powder and ginger. Sherlock nodded shyly and a few of them giggled, “Where’re you off to?”

”Hut 8,” he said with a kind smile and the girls exchanged glances. 

"Best of luck, it's just that way," She gave him a pitied expression and Sherlock's tummy tightened as he followed her gaze. He swallowed and nodded, tipping his head and walking quickly, shoes crunching the gravel beneath him, approaching the garage nervously. 

There was shouting on the other side of the door, and Sherlock nervously tapped on the door, clutching his papers tight, looking them over once again with an anxious turn of his stomach. The door swung open to reveal an alpha with cropped brown hair and an exasperated smile.

"Can I help you?"

"I-um, i'm Sherlock Holmes, I was told to come here," He showed him his papers, nibbling on his lip as he looked them over, the alpha giving him a questioning look.

"Who is it, Hugh?" Came a harsh voice from inside and Sherlock's skin prickled.

"New kid," The Alpha, Hugh apparently, said with a cocky grin. "Well don't be all day about it, come in," Sherlock was quickly shepherded inside, the alpha holding his shoulder with a firm grip which made him want to disappear. Hugh gave him a queer look, and Sherlock shyly looked out at the group of Alphas, with a few betas tacking things to a large map wall. All eyes were on him, and their gazes felt like fire on his skin. _He can tell, they can all tell, they're going to send me away, oh good God-_

"I'm Sherlock," He choked, lungs dry and weak as he coughed a bit into his sleeve before looking up worriedly.

"Hi," The soft looking Scottish man approached him and shook his hand, "I'm John," Sherlock nodded, taking his hand and shaking it. _John John John. Wrong John._

"Your brother told us all about you," Came a snarky voice from the corner, a man in a tanktop slouched over a workbench, looking up barely to look Sherlock over. His hair was slicked and his eyes were a dark brown that swirled with intensity and his lips crooked up into a fraudulent smile, "We don't need any more help, you may leave,"

"Alan, shut up," Hugh growled, and Sherlock swallowed thickly, waiting for the other Alpha to growl back. But he didn't. He just kept working, his eyes locked with focus. "Sorry 'bout that, we do in fact need more help," Sherlock looked between them, the room tense and quietly watching. "I'm sure you know what we're doing here, and how important it is."

Sherlock nodded, eyes still locked on Alan. Alpha, clearly, but not acting like one. Only child, public school, Cambridge. No, wait, _fellow_ or professor at Cambridge. _Fascinating_. That's when he saw it. Like a type writer, but so much heavier with and extra set of letters across the top. Sherlock swallowed thickly, approaching the machine on the table with fearful reverence. His stomach was buzzing with nerves, the entire thing seemed to be surrounded by static, as if it might shock him if he touched it. 

"Every German message is run through it. In goes the locating of every ship and U-boat in the Atlantic, out goes gibberish. The only way to know the code is to know the settings, but they change settings every-"

"No stop, everyone out," Alan interjected, not looking up still, "I want to speak with Mr. Holmes,"

Hugh grumbled, looking down at Alan with a snarl, before thinking better of ripping off his colleague's head and nodding, giving Sherlock's shoulder a second stomach churning squeeze and whispering conspiratorially, "All bark, no bite,"

Sherlock didn't know what to think of that. 

The room was begrudgingly cleared, a few of the betas giving Sherlock worried looks before filing out the door of the garage-like building, and Sherlock was shivering as the Alpha across from him didn't even look up. 

God, if Sherlock had the option to be such an arsehole like that, he would.

"Your brother got you this position."

"The PM gave me this position,"

"Yes, well, I know Mycroft enough to know that the PM's got nothing to do with it, tell me, Holmes, whisked out of University?" Sherlock resisted the urge to deny all knowledge of Mycroft's existence but held his tongue. His newfound freedom could only take him so far, and telling off his new boss(?) was not a proper start.

"I was- I am in the army, sir, I served in France,"

Alan's face wrinkled in distaste at this, and Sherlock's eyebrows raised, "Good for you, but surely you _were_ in University before that?"

Sherlock bit his lip and Alan groaned, setting his glasses on his desk and lacing his fingers together- as if Sherlock was a child in over his head. 

"This is not a toy gun, Mr. Holmes, nor is it another medal for you to pin on your uniform. The privileges you enjoy outside of this room have nothing to with you inside of it, am I clear?"

Sherlock scoffed. _Privilege_?

"This project, what I am building here, is quite possibly more important than you are capable of understanding, I'm terribly sorry, son, I don't hire on recommendation, whether it's an order or not"

"Alan-"

"Mr. Turing"

Sherlock stopped, his mind whirring and his files fluttering inside. _Turing._ His mind traveled to the floor of Mycroft's study, that horrible garish rug under his chest and his brother's books splayed out beneath him. 

"Hold on, I'm sorry, _Turing_?"

Alan only nodded, clearly not bemused by what might've seemed like a veiled attempt at remaining in the room.

"Entscheidungs problem, you proved it,"

"Did nothing of the sort" Alan said with a faint smile, "I proved that it had no answer. I'm sorry, where did you read that, did they give you a brief or something?"

"No, I read it some of my brother's school work, I used to steal it when I was a child,"

"Still are a child, really, Sherlock," Alan said kindly, "but I must say I'm flattered,"

"Please, let me prove I can do this, sir, I really can, I need to do this." Sherlock begged, his entire being throbbing from the sheer placation of begging. But some things were worth it. Alan paused, setting down his pencil and really _looking_ at Sherlock, his eyes evaluating Sherlock in that horrible way he was used to. Sherlock was so tired of proving his own worth. The Alpha stood abrubtly, his chair squeaking on the concrete floor as he huffed over to a desk in the corner of the room, retrieving something. He set down the paper on a desk with a pencil and tapped the wood, inviting Sherlock to take a seat. 

"I've been designing this as a recruitment exercise. Have you ever solved a Crossword Puzzle, Mr. Holmes?"

* * *

Five minutes and forty seven seconds latter, Sherlock wiped the pencil dust from the paper and stood, his own chair making an equally horrific squeak, Turing's eyes immediately looking up. 

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm finished," Alan blinked confusedly, holding his slide rule in his hand midair.

"I'm sorry, you're done already?"

"You told me to complete it in ten minutes sir," Alan's mouth sat slightly agape, taking the paper from Sherlock harshly and looking it over. He glared at the paper and then looked up at the nervous looking boy in front of him. Holy hell, five minutes? He solved it in _five_ minutes?

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Holmes," Alan half-whispered as he sat back in his chair and looked at him strangely, giving him a fake smile, his eyes cataloging Sherlock in disbelief. Sherlock's heart sagged in relief and he nodded vigorously, a single curl breaking loose of his hair and dangling in his forehead. Alan's nostrils flared, his eyes flickering over Sherlock as the boy's excitement drew out his hormones. It was never really going to work- a suppressant designed by an alpha was never meant to _actually_ work.

"You're an omega," Alan gasped suddenly, his head tilted to the side, as if he couldn't see this clearly. Sherlock swallowed and clenched his hands into fists, his cheeks pounding with blood and his eyes wide. "I can just barely catch it, how can this be?"

"You have a keen sense of smell," He whispered, their eyes locked, the empty room echoing with silence.

"My god, 1 in a million, literally," He chuckled, and Sherlock's eyes widened at his blithe indifference, the Alpha looking at him like he were some freak of nature. Sherlock couldn't decide if that was better than an object of desire. "But I don't understand, why are you hiding? when you have no reason to?" Alan said curtly, turning and sitting back at his desk. 

"No reason to?" Sherlock scoffed, blinking and watching this ignorant man with disdain, "Would you have taken me seriously if I came in here eight months pregnant and reeking of my husband?"

"You're married?" Alan looked up, looking him over with that look alphas had. The _aren't you sweet_ look. Sherlock grit his teeth and rolled his eyes.

"I'm 17, sir, of course I'm married."

"Seventeen," Alan shook his head with a incredulous smile, "And people call me a genius. I just can't understand the concealment,"

"You don't have to understand,"

"Do you not like your marriage?" Alan said kindly, his eyes wide and _sympathetic_. Perhaps he thought Sherlock was on the run from a vicious bondmate, it wasn't uncommon. Runaway omegas if discovered would be returned to their Alphas, but plenty of people disagreed with the practice. Fuck your sympathy, Sherlock wanted to growl. Turing spoke as if he had any right to try and understand him, when he certainly did _not_.

"It's complicated! Of course I do, of course I love him. This has nothing to do with this." Sherlock snarled.

"And he supports this?" Alan looked him up and down, and Sherlock felt so exposed, as if the kind man's eyes could see right through the fabric. 

"What John does or does not allow me to do is none of your concern,"

"I think you are fine as you are, Sherlock, why live in shame when you have nothing to be ashamed of,"

"I'm not in shame, it's transport. But you mustn't say anything, Alan, I mean it, you have no idea how much this means to me. _This_ is the most important thing I have ever done."

Alan looked at him strangely, evaluating, and Sherlock watched him intensely. For some reason he wanted to see approval there.

"If you were to move in the wrens of Hut 3, and join us during the day, your work would not suffer. Our work would not suffer. But you would not be living in a lie."

"But-" The alpha cut him off and grasped him by the shoulder with kind eyes.

"You're too beautiful to pull off the lie for long," He said nonchallantly, as if this were obvious and unimportant, "besides, what about your...time?" Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. Heat suppressants were older than synthetic insulin, most certainly never available for the public, but there were medical and professional exceptions. 

"They have chemical, _treatments_ for it, we took them in the army" He said, the words trailing into a dry cough.

"No, no you must stop that at once, no wonder you seem ill. You'll have those days off, I will see to it." Alan said quickly, looking back down to his drawings as if nothing had been said.

"It's not as easy as that sir, it's not, _safe_ ," Sherlock said with embarrassment, "I'm not safe without them,"

"Good God, you really believe it don't you," Alan shook his head, "The lie that Alpha's can't help themselves, that it's your fault. It's not your fault for existing, Sherlock. I will personally assure that you are safe, you have to believe me, please stay, I'm sorry i was-"

"I don't, understand, you're not upset." Sherlock knit his brows and approached him closer.

"Sometimes it's the people no one can imagine anything of, that do the things no one can imagine,"

Sherlock smiled under his breath, looking up with wide almost-tearful eyes, tucking his hands in his pockets. Something warm was tugging in his heart and he sniffled, rubbing his eyes and laughing. And for once he didn't feel weak for letting a few tears out. 

"You're brilliant, Sherlock, truly," Alan said softly, pulling out his handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to Sherlock, who smiled gratefully and took it from ink-stained fingers, "I'm sorry that socie- no, I'm sorry that I would've underestimated you, I'm sorry you felt the need to do this, I truly am. Nobody should do that to anybody else, nobody should hurt anybody else,"

Sherlock watched the genius and something inside of him warmed. As if he'd finally found somebody like him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oml, my loves, I must sincerely appologize for how long this chapter has taken and also how badly written it is, school's started back up and I've been terribly busy. I have so much ahead and I am so excited to write it, but please forgive me if my updates are slower than they used to be. ilysm<3 <3 <3


	43. Chapter 43

_10 July 1940_

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_My workmates have all compiled their thanks for the biscuits you sent and they decided had to be shared (morale or something) and now you're rather famous in ~~Hut 8~~ and made ~~Hut 6~~ atrociously jealous. Although I must call into question how you managed the sugar to bake them, I will not press the issue further. If ~~Mycroft's~~ slipping extra tickets into your book please send more. ~~Alan~~ stole the tin to hold ~~wires~~ so don't expect it to return._

_I suppose you'd be happy to know ~~Alan saw through my frontage immediately~~. He's been great, honestly, so unalpha-like, more of a friend ~~than a commander.~~ In fact, nothing about this is similar to the military except the orders and the setting. The girl I room with is sweet, but boring. Most people are boring, hell some of my colleagues are boring. But not ~~Alan~~ , or ~~Hugh~~. I like them. ~~They're professors you know, maths professors who write papers with names a mile long~~ and it's been quite a vocabulary lesson, but I keep up fine. It's a taste of the other world. The world I would've had if I'd been like ~~Mycroft~~. i can't tell you much, only that we've made such wonderful progress. ~~We're building a machine, and everyone thinks I'm brilliant for knowing about engines and mechanics.~~ Oh, I forgot to mention that things are very hush hush (completely unnecessary action with you, Mrs. H, I must say) and the redactioning can be rather over zealous, so if this letter is inarticulate and confusing, blame ~~the Navy~~. _

_I've been given heat leave, no_ _w that I'm in a " ~~civilian~~ post" (although ~~Captain Moran~~ has also been re-stationed here and I wonder if it's not solely to look after me, which is horrible and reeks of ~~Mycroft~~ ), so I will be coming home in a week or so. John will be convalescing at home by then, so you won't have to look after me. ~~He can't tell me where he's being assigned after his leave is complete, but it was obvious from the stationary he's been picked off by the Air Force (~~ smell of ~~fuel~~ , very specifically ~~aeronautical, and the smudging of a very specific blue paint that I myself painted planes with, besides the fact his Father was a Major General in the last war. Nepotism is a wonderful thing isn't it?~~ He'll be so much safer ~~in a plane than a ship at the moment.~~ I know this because, well I can't tell you why but I do. An upside to having heat is that I can stock my pills for after the war. Who knows that the future brings Mrs. H! An omega ~~in Hut 8!!~~_

_I miss you very much and I look forward to coming home soon._

_Sincerely,_

_S.H.W._

* * *

_13 July 1940_

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_I have been told off for my previous letter, and I imagine they've destroyed it with their censorship, so please accept my appologies._

_S.H.W._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh dear, how do I explain...I've been so busy with studying for exams I haven't had any time to write, and this chapter is SO tiny I'm so sorry. I want you all to know I have not given up! This story should be done in about 5 more chapters I hope to get done over half-term and possibly winter break as well. I love you all so very much, kisses and love for your support cuties xxx


	44. Chapter 44

13 November 1940

Sherlock smiled to himself when he heard the door downstairs. The omega was tucked up in his bed, his curls lightly glistening with sweat and his skin rosy and just a little feverish to the touch. Hudders had set him up nice, with a cup of tea that currently sat cold on his night table. Sherlock nuzzled his head into the arc of pillows he'd collected from the house, blankets and old clothes all placed just-so, his nest warm and soft from the frigid night air. He bit his lip with a small breath of anticipation as heard boot-laden footsteps, even if his gait was dreadfully uneven and limpish as he came, slowly but surely up the stairs.He rustled a bit under his quilt and whined softly, hoping John might hear him. 

Providence was apparently in his favour, and the bedroom door squeaked open, a rather familiar scent of gunpowder, heather and something so indescribably _John._ Sherlock smiled lazily to himself, feeling light and floaty and safe. His heat was slowly taking him, and this time he let it, his breaths shallow and his eyes fluttered shut. The bed creaked and John's weight shifted him a bit, and Sherlock blinked, rolling over to look at his husband. John smiled and slowly pet at Sherlock's curls, tucking a stray one behind his ears. He traced the hot shell of it with his index finger before leaning forward and pressing a firm and gentle kiss to his clammy forehead. It was silent, but the unsaid stories told could fill a book. Sherlock's eyes were hazy, but through the fog John saw something cool and clear, fear and understanding and guilt and forgiveness and love and friendship all at once. 

"Hullo," Sherlock mumbled awkardly, his lips curled into a smile. 

"Hi," John grinned, hand resting gently atop his omega's stomach, the darkness around them fading into oblivion. 

"Would you like to come into my nest?" Sherlock said with a giggle, pulling open a slot in the duvet and John obliged once his boots were off and discarded to the floor. Sherlock immediately wrapped himself over his Alpha like a sea anenome, his legs locked around his abdomen and his nose pressed to his neck, sucking down breath after delcious breath of pheromones, warm and spicy and soothing. "You're my husband, Jawn," The omega whispered, lapping at the older man's neck delicately. 

"I am," John smiled, callused palm resting on Sherlock's nape and nose pressed into his shock of beautiful midnight locks. Beautiful Sherlock, filling John's lung with sweet minty blackberries and just a hint of typewriter ink below his mouth-watering preheat.

"Y'know, John," Sherlock said, sighing and flopping his head onto the Alpha's good shoulder. 

"Yes, dear?"

"My commanding officer is a genius,"

"Mm," John nodded and continued to massage his scalp as the loose beginings of heat filtered through his nose. "He's the maths one, yeah?"

"Nooo Jawn," Sherlock mumbled with a silly grin, finger lightly tracing around the mangled and red scar tissues of his shoulder, "not because of _that._ He's a genius to let us have heat together. I haven't wanted your cock in my arse so much since-" Sherlock's brows burrowed in concentration, "oh I don't know, a long while, John, that's all. It's been a very long while."

"Ah," John pressed a second and third kiss to Sherlock's head. He knew the feeling. Every moment like this, ever milometer of smooth petal skin he could grasp was heaven. His aching, throbbing leg had dulled. "It might be a very long while again, darling,"

"Don't say that!" Sherlock gasped, flopping upwards and throwing a leg over John, palms on his chest and sweet little nose oh-so-close to John's, "It won't be a long while at all Jawn, it'll all be over soon, and then you can be a doctor and I can be a scientist and we can live here, together and we can forget this whole war. I don't fancy it, John.

There was a silence, Sherlock's itching skin rubbing against the sheets, his fingers grasping the bed clothes tight as a sharp throb ached in his neck. John lapped at it, cooling and gentle and Sherlock sighed contentedly, throwing himself prostrate across John's chest once more.

"A scientist?" John raised an eyebrow, the hair on his skin standing rod-straight, his arms tightening around the trembling omega in protectiveness. His instincts made him glance to the door, the windows, the need to keep Sherlock safe running thicker through his veins at the scent of a flowering heat. 

"Mm, detective and a scientist," Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his nose and chin across John's pectorals. "Did'y'know that there's no such thing as omega birth control, Jawn?"

John nodded as his hands traveled lower down Sherlock's hips. 

"Mm, more John" Sherlock's hips wiggled as he tightened his legs around John's hips, feeling John's thick cock through the thin material of his uniform trousers. "I- wanna help, John, help omegas,"

"Mm, i know you do sweetheart," John murmured as he trailed kissed and licks across Sherlock's pale expanse of neck and shoulder, tongue swirling across his bond bite, so dark and contrasting against Sherlock's whiteness in the pale moonlights. "You care so much, darling, and I love you for it,"

"Mycroft, he said once- I was-s a sociopath," Sherlock whimpered, his skin tingling and itching as John kissed his chin, his red hot ears receiving a few careful licks. "'cause I didn't love anybody, Jawn,"

John's chest rumbled as he grasped his omega by the waist and flipped them over, muscular thighs trapping Sherlock like prey, palms on his wrists, eyes glimmering with lust and anger at Mycroft for saying such a thing. Sherlock's lips turned into a dizzy smile, eyelashes fluttering at his strong Alpha, such a good Alpha, so protective and good. 

"But he was wrong, wasn't he?" John said, breaths heaving as his rut began, and Sherlock's hips bucked upwards, trying to find his Alpha's cock in a wave of pure lust. 

"I love _you_ John," Sherlock's voice broke, high and breathy and full of need and love, "You fixed me."

"I did no such..thing... Oh _Christ Sherlock_ ," John grunted as he stripped of his trousers quickly, eager cock bobbing against his abdomen as Sherlock's needy fingers tugged at his shirt buttons.The omega eagerly opened his knees and angled his hips upward, his body desperate for relief now, the pains beginning in his tummy.

John crawled downwards to nuzzle at Sherlock's tiny little cock, which was purple and dripping with clear fluid. But the sweet smell of his creaming hole was mouthwatering. He slurped at a tiny little drizzle that crawled down Sherlock's inner thigh, the sweet and salty taste on his tongue was magnificent. So perfect. His perfect omega. John's thumbs brushed across Sherlock's thighs as he worked him open with his tongue, and he placed gentle kisses to the fading white scars there. Beautiful. Sherlock was beautiful.

"Good omega, so good," John growled, Sherlock's voice catching with a high-pitched whimper, knees spread further still. 

"P-please, Jawn, Alpha, _please_ ," He keened, head thrown back, eyelids pressed closes. 

"Shh, you're so beautiful, darling, you're so beautiful," John quickly got to work testing his cloaca- which had opened up, but not enough yet. "You're not ready yet, darling boy," John pressed kisses to the tops of his quivering thighs, warm hands holding his ankles upward. "On your front, Sherlock,"

"NO! No, no wanna see you, Jawn," Sherlock's eyes flew open and he begged John, fingers gripping his Alpha's arms. Sherlock's back arched off the bed as he moaned in pain. "I want you, Jawn, please, please, want your pups, please, Jawn,"

The Alpha thundered a growl at that, his cock rather pleased by the notion- oh christ, imagining Sherlock's tummy round and full, so full he could barely move, stuffed with tiny little him-and-Sherlock's, but shook his head. 

"No, love, not tonight,"

"I'm ready, John, I am, I'm ready, please," Sherlock's eyes were clear and he looked at John with a steady, stubborn strength. "I want them,"

"You're bloody serious," John sat back on his heels and shook his head in disbelief, "You git, do you know what you do to me?" 

Pups? Now? Really? John glanced to his trousers on the floor, the fresh packet of condoms inside the pocket. He licked his lips, blinking a few times to clear his head. Now wasn't really the time to talk about this. Was he ready? Was Sherlock ready?...maybe they were...maybe the timing was right...

No. Stupid. Having babies in the middle of a _bloody_ war. Reckless. Dangerous. Stupid. Beautiful. Pregnant Sherlock. Pups. Kin. Family. John growled and snarled, his Alpha pulling at him. 

_Mount. Claim. Knot. Breed. Mount. Claim. Knot. Breed. Mount. Claim. Knot-_

"Ow ow ow, oh _GOD_ Jawn, cock, please. Need your cock _now,_ " Sherlock howled.

"So bossy now, eh?" John pushed two fingers up inside, and Sherlock gasped, crying out in relief, hips pressing himself further impaled on John's hand. 

"Oh, please, more, Jawn, please," The omega sobbed, his eyes full of tears, teeth pressing on his bottom lip. John growled and obliged, stretching and scissoring his fingers before adding a third, just to be on the safe side, working the already fluttering hole open.

"Good boy, Sherlock, oh you're so good, you're so good,"

Sherlock whimpered as his hips thrust of their own accord, his hands flailing to find John's shoulders, soaking wet curls slapping against his forehead. The Alpha roared as he pressed the tip of his thick, dripping cock inside of him, the omega's legs kicking forward a bit in response to the welcome intrusion. _Oh Christ._

"Mm, you're so _tight,_ Sherlock, you're so perfect," John thundered as his hips began to cant, thick muscular hands wrapped around Sherlock's hips, bruises sure to form there in the morning. Sherlock was beyond words at this point, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs, cheeks stained with tears of relief. Completely torn apart and shaking. The Alpha grinned, licking his lips as he his eyes raked over Sherlock's pert little nipples and miles of porcelain skin. _His omega._

He picked up the pace to a punishing speed, his Alpha completely at the wheel as he rut, pummeling the weak and trembling omega. Each thrust sent Sherlock's head backwards, drunk and bleary with his needs. 

"MINE," John roared as his swollen knot pressed against Sherlock's rim, and the omega nodded feverishly. 

"yours, Jawn, yours, Alpha, all yours," Sherlock whispered as the knot pressed through, plugging him tight. His voice heard like a tiny prayer in the steaming warmth of their bodies, skin on skin, heat on heat. A symphony of sensations and data he was too lost to try and collect. His whole mind was quiet, his heart swollen with pride. He was _John's_. All would be okay if they had each other, doctor and detective, soldiers together. It would all be okay if Sherlock was John's. 

It was too much suddenly as John's cock thrust into his prostate, it was all far too much and Sherlock's cock spurted out his watery spunk, his orgasm wrenching through his body with a scream. 

John's hips stilled, his head thrown forward in a growl, fingers digging into the pale flesh of his husband's bony hips. He clenched his teeth around Sherlock's neck, paralyzing the poor weakened lad. His cock throbbed as each wave of his orgasm poured into Sherlock, gushing and filling him to the brim, the milky thick substance drizzling around Johns' knot he was so full. The omega sobbed with relief, curls sticking to his forehead and cheeks a dark crimson flush, his chest and neck rosy and pink. 

He was an angel, eyes fluttered closed, mouth open slightly, face soft and pure and holy in the moonlight. John leaned forward and kissed delicately up his tummy and chest, lapping away the stray beads of sweat. He dipped his head to nuzzle his beautiful omega. 

Suddenly, in the distance, the air howled with a siren, far away in the city, the sky thundering and roaring with the sound of an engine. John's eyes startled open as Sherlock began to tremble, trying to pull himself up off of John's knot in blind panic, sure to hurt himself. It wasn't a pleasant sensation on John's end either, and he grunted before gripping Sherlock by the forearms and searching his manic eyes. Calming Sherlock during an air raid was difficult at the best of times, but this was definitely the worst time. Thank God it wasn't their street.

"Woah there, Sherlock, you're safe, you're alright, you can't move, love, you'll hurt yourself," He soothed, tucking his chin over Sherlock's head.

"John- but John- th-the-"

"Shh Shh, I'm here, Sherlock, nothing will happen to you if I'm here,"

"But- the p-planes, Jawn," 

"Yes, I know, love, I fly them. And I know a few of the lads up there in the sky, and I know we'll be alright," John smiled with a calm strength, petting his lover's soft and damp hair. 

"But you can't! You can't know that! I'm-" Sherlock whimpered, curling himself inward inside of John's grasp, " _scared_ ," 

John mmed, pressing a kiss to his forehead, their bodies still locked together in a warm embrace. John reached to pull the blanket over them, cacooning them together in a little hiding place. 

"See, you're all safe, darling, just listen to me breathing, like this," John sucked a deep breath, and Sherlock sputtered and tried to do the same, "That's it, that's it, I know you're scared,"

"J-J-Janine," Sherlock whispered into the humid space between their lips, eyes glazed with tears.

"It's all gonna be alright, Sherlock, we're all safe," John's open hand traced across Sherlock's hips, coming to rest on the flat of his concave stomach, "All of us," Sherlock breathed out a chuckle, wiping his teary cheeks with his forearm.

"Sorry, John, I know I shouldn't have asked, like that. We can- we can get rid of it before it becomes anything," Sherlock sniffled, pushing away John's hand. The Alpha growled and put it back quickly, finding Sherlock's brilliant blue eyes glowing in the darkness.

"Do you want this? Do you really, truly want this, Sherlock?"

The omega paused, lip bit, his eyes wide. 

"Do you?"

"Course I do,"

"But your dad- you said-"

"He's got nothing to do with it. I'm not my father."

"Oh," Sherlock nibbled on his lip some more, his heart thumping in his chest. He blinked away tears and took a shaky breath. "That's- that's good,"

"You didn't say if you wanted this, Sherlock," John prompted softly, tracing his cheekbones with his knuckle as his knot began to throb in it's deflation. The omega's lips turned into a smile, his eyes bright and his cheeks rosy as he curled himself even closer to John, chin tucked over his shoulder and arms wrapped around his neck. 

"I do. I want this more than anything,"

John's breathing was fast for a moment as it hit him. Father. He was going to be a father. Fuck. FUCK. 

"You're happy, aren't you John?" Sherlock murmured nervously and the older man barked out a laugh.

"Fucking Christ, Sherlock, I'm the happiest man in the world,"

Sherlock giggled and hugged John tight, the Alpha's chest grumbling with pleasure as he pulled him closer still, tight and safe in his arms. 

"If it's a girl, you can name it. I want to name it if it's a boy,"

"Alright," John chuckled, "that sounds fair,"

"And I'm not leaving my work, John," Sherlock said seriously as he pulled himself off the knot, John's flaccid cock slipping freely and his hole tightening back closed. 

"Of course, but once the war's over..."

"I'm still going to work."

Silence. 

"It's up to you, darling," John acquiesced, sighing and rubbing his eyes. Sherlock grinned and nuzzled his Alphas' cheek tenderly. 

"Admit it, you _like_ strong omegas," Sherlock giggled, and John shrugged.

"There's one that I don't mind," John opened one eye playfully and Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. 

"You're still not allowed to die in this war, John Watson,"

"Wouldn't want to disobey _your_ orders, private" John sighed as he nodded off, 

"Fuck off, I'm _serious_ ," Sherlock huffed, "besides, it's _lieutenant,_ Mycroft had me promoted now that I have a safe stuffy job far from the front, the bastard"

"You weren't safe, Sherlock, and I didn't approve,"

"But-"

"I'm your alpha, Sherlock, your safety is my first priority,"

"Oh whatever,"

"Admit it, you _like_ strong Alphas,"

"Oh that's a brilliant comeback John, really," the omega rolled his eyes but his smile gave him away. 

"God, I haven't been this happy in-" John realized suddenly that he'd never been as happy as he was, right now, in the middle of a fucking war, "a long while,"

"Sh, John, I'm sleeping," The omega rumbled, face flopped across John's chest. 

"Bloody arrogant git," John mumbled under his breath, and could almost hear Sherlock's smirk. 


End file.
